


Give Me Hope in the Darkness

by NurgleTWH



Series: Ghosts That We Knew [1]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: (if you search the measurement units you will find most of them are something like, (repeatedly), Amnesia, Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Body Dysphoria, Catastrophic memory loss, Depression, Disassociation, Flashbacks, Hallownest is the Kingdom of Obscure Bullshit, Headaches & Migraines, I am Following the Theme, Inappropriate Response to Suicidal Friend, Let Ghost say Fuck, Memory Loss, Mentions of Cancer, Multi, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Use of Obscure Measurement Units, gods look at those tags--who wouldn’t be depressed, romantic asexual relationship, “how far a person can walk in a day” because I made a Concious Choice)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28255830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurgleTWH/pseuds/NurgleTWH
Summary: This is not where Quirrel had meant to be. He had not intended to stillbeat all. Yet here he is, waiting for his small friend to return from wherever it is they have gone.After a fateful meeting at the Blue Lake, Quirrel joins the little wanderer in their quest to seek answers and determine the fate of Hallownest.
Relationships: The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), The Knight/Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Series: Ghosts That We Knew [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069895
Comments: 152
Kudos: 151





	1. Choice to Live My Life Extended

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, please be gentle, let me know if I mangled the etiquette.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I will do my damnedest to clarify which of the tags/topics apply in the notes for each chapter. My plan is to separate out the truly harrowing chapters as best I can and make them stand-alone so that if you need to you can skip them. For separated chapters, there will be a chapter in the companion work that has either been heavily edited to avoid those moments, or flat out be a bullet point summary of the plot bits with no details. If you need to skip a chapter that will hopefully let you keep up with the story; if you read the unabridged version, you can skip the summary.
> 
> Please let me know if I mess that up, and I need to tag for something I didn’t or my abridging is too sparse/too detailed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel muses on his life and his little friend the day after returning from the Blue Lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s an excuse for exposition, dear readers.
> 
> Many thanks to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Deals with _Catastrophic Memory Loss, Memory Loss_ , single mention of _Suicidal Thoughts_ , vague acknowledgement of _Body Dysphoria_. Stand-alone chapter.

#### Quirrel

* * *

Quirrel stands in the middle of the room, staring at the ceiling, thoughts scattered like so many lost lumaflies.

Why was he still here?

He understands why he is in this room, but this is not where he’d meant to be. He had not intended to still _be_ at all. Yet here he is, waiting for his small friend to return from wherever it is they have gone.

He realizes he doesn’t even know their name, or if they have one. He now remembers _what_ they are... but even knowing that it’s the normal way of things to recognize a bug as, say, a cicada before learning their name, he would far rather know their name than their composition.

Vessels are not normal things.

_None of this is normal._

He had been standing in front of the Archives, barely able to maintain a coherent thought. Everything had looked familiar, had felt like home; but even as those feelings formed, they had shattered into shards and fragments, cutting through his mind when they fell.

He believes he talked to his little friend before they entered the Archives; it is unthinkable that he would not have done so. But he has no memory of the conversation, and only a blurry recollection that they stopped to listen before going on in. Even that recollection is more of a supposition, strongly based on the fact that not pausing to acknowledge his presence would have been just as out of character for _them_.

He has no idea what thought or impulse finally sent him through the entrance, but whatever it was had at least propelled him forward, and once he was walking towards the doors, momentum had carried him through.

It had been disappointingly prosaic, walking in and feeling the spells around his mind simply drop away. Contrary to his favorite romantic fantasy novels, there had been no bolt of lightning, no mind bursting forth as if from a frozen pond, no sudden transcendent unveiling of his inner mind; he was mildly disappointed. But as he wandered through the foyer, the relief when his thoughts were no longer being ripped away as they happened had nearly left him in tears.

The first of his memories to return had been fairly coherent, and revolved around the plan, the bindings, and what he was expected to do — which only made sense. But his little friend had moved quickly, and what with dithering around out front for so long, he had almost been too late to join their fight with Uumuu.

* * *

After his friend had… after Monomon… after she had died… well. He’d seen the little one briefly, once or twice over the next week. They hadn’t approached, just watched him from behind the acid tubes or around a corner; he didn’t understand why. Their reluctance to approach him had hurt, more than he expected.

He had spent that week trying to put himself together, trying to find himself; instead, he kept falling further and further apart, until his grief had driven him out of the Archives.

His friend had found him at the Blue Lake, and he’d talked with them briefly before sinking back into the morass of his own thoughts. They had sat beside him for a time, before beginning a conversation in writing on the sandy shores that ravaged his tattered soul. He still isn’t ready to confront that conversation, the implications and revelations, the hopes facing the realities, and what it might mean.

He hadn’t been particularly aware as his friend led him away from the lake and into the City of Tears, and he had remained in a fog the rest of the evening. The little one had fussed over him a bit, finding him some bedding to sleep on and making sure he ate at least a bit of food before they both collapsed in exhaustion.

When he had woken up, they had been sitting quietly, drawing in their journal. He had just lain there, watching them, trying to fit his shattered knowledge of what a Vessel was meant to be into the reality in front of him — and failing. Failing, and that didn’t even take into account what he knew of them from the various times they had met across the kingdom.

The plan had _never_ had a chance.

At his muffled sob, they had looked up and put aside their work, approaching him and sitting down by his head. He had hidden his face in his hands, trying to regain his composure.

It felt like he hadn’t stopped crying for longer than a couple of hours since the memory block had been dispelled. When he wasn’t being overwhelmed by swarms of little memories, scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind, he was left grasping at nothing, chasing phantoms of memories that refused to materialize. He had begun hoping that eventually everything would just go numb. When that hadn’t occurred, when instead the emotional whiplash kept getting worse, he had gone to the Blue Lake. His intention had been meditation, introspection. He had hoped that by taking himself away from the familiarity of the Archives, to somewhere he had rarely been before, he might be able to ground his feelings. Gain some control over the hurricane inside. Or perhaps that had just been the lie he had told himself, because he hadn’t been on the shore for long before an entirely different solution had presented itself.

It had felt _right,_ sitting there, watching the gentle ripples move across the lake. Seductive, even.

He keened softly when the attempt to gain control failed, curling in on himself.

Eventually, he became aware of a gentle touch, petting him softly on his kerchief. He reached out blindly and wrapped an arm around them, pulling them into his chest, where they snuggled in and wrapped their arms around as much of him as they could. They had both lain there while he wept, and he held on hard, scared of what would happen if he let go.

When he had exhausted his tears, they had continued to lay in his arms, alternating between gently petting him and wrapping their arms around his neck, clinging to him as he had clung to them, breathing erratic and body trembling. He wondered if this was how they cried; decided it was, or as near to it as made no difference. And so, he held them as they had held him.

Quirrel realizes now that his kerchief is the only place they could have touched him without actually _touching_ him, and it tears away yet another piece of his soul. He wonders how there is anything left of it.

* * *

When it came time to try and plan the day, they ran into difficulties — the person with the itinerary couldn’t talk. And while they could read and write, the only paper they currently carried was their map (which didn’t need to be filled with random conversation) and their journal (which Quirrel had stopped them from tearing pages out of; as a scholar and minor historian, the thought of limiting future records was horrifying).

So Quirrel had begun to teach them sign language. Just the absolute basics, as well as some of the intuitive ones. “Yes” and “no” because they could be clearer than head gestures sometimes; “me” and “you”; “unsure” which promptly got misused as “I don’t know” often enough that he had shown them “not” and “know”. “Sad” and “cry” since there was no avoiding the topic, “happy” as balance; and “stop,” “wait,” and “come,” because if they were going to be travelling together — and Quirrel very dearly wanted to — having clear communication for safety was critical. And finally, at their insistence, “please” and “thank you”; it was a telling insight into who they were as a person, and Quirrel was not at all surprised.

They had both agreed that fingerspelling was best left as a future endeavor.

He’d told them he didn’t recall where or why he’d learned how to sign, and that had been the truth at the time. But now, pondering the morning as he starts to move about the room, he remembers that the whole family had ended up learning when his youngest sister had hatched with facial deformities; he had been five, and recalls the heartbreak and fear as she struggled to eat and drink. That she wouldn’t be able to speak hadn’t registered until weeks later. He had…

He had family. It was something that he had known was logically true, but suddenly he knows the _form_ of it, if not the particulars. He collapses to his knees and lets the knowledge wash over him. His mothers, his fathers, his siblings… “A whole mob in a house” was how mama had put it. Five parents, thirteen kids, and some pets.

That is all he gets for now, but the pervasive feeling of _love_ that rides on the knowledge more than makes up for it. So few of his returning memories bring any joy that the surprise of it leaves him giddy, and a soft laugh escapes. Wrapping his arms around himself in an impromptu self-hug, he stands up again. He knows better than to try and chase the recollection. It never works, and it leaves him angry and frustrated. The memories always end up more complete when he doesn’t try and dig them out.

Looking around the room, he wonders how many of the gaps are due to the spells that had been placed upon him, vs. the purported memory loss that leaving Hallownest would incur, vs. simply being… _old._

Because he is undoubtedly incredibly old.

He had tried to figure out how long it had been as he dug through the Archives. He had a vague feeling that there were time-keeping devices in there somewhere, but he hadn’t managed to locate them; and that assumed that whatever the stasis was that covered the kingdom allowed those to function correctly.

He isn’t even sure the word “stasis” applies to what exists here — the Infection has progressed, the infrastructure has degraded, biological processes such as decay have continued; he shudders to think what the streets of the city… of _anywhere_ would look like if the bodies hadn’t broken down eventually. That doesn’t leave much that the word “stasis” could apply to; does it simply mean that anyone living here just… doesn’t age? As far as he can tell, whatever spells had affected him had included _something_ that prevented him from aging. He had quipped about “feeling his age” after Monomon… after she had died. Except that he hadn’t truly felt that way; he hadn’t known how he felt other than _overwhelmed_ , and since the sudden awareness of the sheer amount of time involved was part of it, “feel my age” tumbled out.

He _had_ found the employee and student records, althogh they weren’t nearly as helpful as one would assume — and it turned out that the Bug Resources records were kept apart from the employment data.. So now he knew that he had first come to the Archives when he was twenty-four, been initially employed as a “Personal Guard (Non-Permanent, Non-Exempt)” to Monomon, dropped off the records three months later, returned after another two months (now age twenty-five) but listed as “Personal Defense Trainer (Permanent, Exempt)”, and then was also listed as a student a month after that. It turns out he has a degree in Ethnoentomology, gained in the usual four years with good (but not extraordinarily so) marks. Upon its completion, he had enrolled in the graduate program under the same field, continued to be a Personal Defense Trainer, as well as taken a position listed as “Lead Research Assistant (Permanent, Non-Exempt)”.

He had heard the jokes while he wandered, about how some graduate students ended up being “professional” graduate students with a projected graduation term of a decade (or longer) instead of something more… reasonable. The fact that he had apparently been a graduate student for at least five years perhaps explained why he didn’t find the joke funny.

Those records were just that — records. Data in acid that held a vague familiarity but didn’t feel personal. Important, but not _personal_.

There was a story in there somewhere, a history, a _Quirrel._ A person with hopes and dreams, but he was damned if he knew who that Quirrel had been. Nor did he know _when_ that Quirrel had existed, not in relation to the time that had passed outside of Hallownest. He had managed to string together some clues, events he could relate to things he had learned in his wanderings, as well as the general disarray of Hallownest’s ruins; tied together with what he now knew was more than just a gut-level ability to judge history and the stories of how bugs live, he would be willing to sink a lot of geo into a bet that he’d been gone for nearly three hundred years.

He is _old._ How should he judge his memory, when put into this context? What is the precedent, the baseline? Does he not remember something because his brains have been scrambled? Or is it simply because it has been _that long_ , and fuzzy memories would be normal? When he thinks about it in this context, the fact that _any_ of the memories that slot back into place are vivid is a miracle.

As he moves around the room, he tries to get more of a feel for who his friend is, without prying. The room has been lightly occupied for a while. There aren’t many belongings, but there are some scattered mementos and trinkets. A few are recognizable from places he traveled in the Wastelands (what a misnomer that name is), and it causes him to wonder whether the trinkets had been picked up because his friend had wandered through the area — and thus held memory and meaning — or whether they had been found here, in Hallownest, and were kept for their aesthetics. He trails a hand over a few, noting a figurine of a cicada in traditional summer dance garb, carved from malachite. If these were from their travels, how often had he and they crossed paths — physically, if not temporally? Quirrel can identify at least six kingdoms where he has journeyed represented within the keepsakes.

He briefly wonders if he has seen them outside of this place; wishes he had, glad that he hadn’t, and unsure of why.

Deciding that he should probably stop browsing before his nosy impulses get the better of him, Quirrel steps out of the room and into the hallway. He can feel the moisture in the air from the hot springs. The room they are in was one of the private changing rooms that could be rented in the Pleasure House. Another memory sparks into place: the private rooms were just that — secluded rooms to store belongings, robes, and other items while you changed into whatever clothing (or lack thereof) you preferred to wear to sit in the springs. The rules were very strictly enforced, and no “hanky-panky” was tolerated.

Quirrel remembers wondering if that was to maintain the professional presentation, or if it was because constantly cleaning up after such activities was far more trouble than it was worth. He chuckles at the thought as the memory trails off, leaving him with a lingering sense that he was one of the bugs that made those rules necessary.

* * *

Quirrel is soaking in the springs when his friend returns; they look exhausted. They pause at the edge of the waters, and he grins, glad to see them.

“Welcome back, my friend! I’m delighted to see you have returned safely. Did you find what you needed?”

They wave, then sign, “Happy yes.”

“I’m glad to hear that! I hope it went relatively smoothly as well?”

“Unsure, yes.” they sign, with a tired shrug.

Quirrel shifts in the water, sitting up a bit more, growing worried. “Hmm. Does that mean ‘mostly yes’?”

“Yes.”

“Should I be worried about the ‘mostly’?”

A pause while they think, then “Not no.”

“That’s the same as ‘probably yes’ then.”

They start to shake their head, stop, another pause. “Yes.”

“My friend…” he starts, stopping when they look down and start fidgeting with the hem of their cloak.

“…ah.”

He thinks a moment, trying to sort out the signals. Softly asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” They cover their eyes with their hands for a few moments, then haltingly sign, “Wait please, unsure sad, not no wait yes.”

They stop, wave their hands a bit in frustration, sign “Wait.” They think for a while, and then resume signing, “I know you do not know me, wait please I unsure,” another moment of thinking, “You do not know me, sad cry unsure, please wait yes, I,” a vague gesture where their mouth would be, “you OK yes, please you wait OK please?”

Confused, Quirrel says, “That is a lot, so I’m going to say what I think you just said so you can tell me if I understood. Is that OK?”

“Yes, please!” and they sit down, dangling their legs into the spring.

“You don’t want to talk about it,” Quirrel says, watching them.

They nod, then sign “Unsure.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t clear: I just wanted you to know I recognize you don’t want to talk about it.”

They clasp their hands in their lap, give a small nod.

“You don’t want to talk about it, whatever it is makes you sad, and you don’t think I know you very well so,” and he stops when they start frantically waving their arms about.

“Ok. I’ll back up. We’ve established you don’t want to talk about it. Does it make you sad?” he asks.

A nod.

“That means you objected to me saying I don’t know you very well.”

Another nod.

“But I don’t, my friend.”

They sag, defeated, and give a small nod, looking back down at their lap.

Quirrel shifts forward, leans his elbows on his knees, and says “Not knowing you very well is not the same as not caring. I do care — very deeply — for you.”

They look back up. He reaffirms, “ _I care for you_ , you are my friend, and I mean that wholeheartedly. I want to learn everything about you, the things you love, the things you hate, about your travels, all of it. I _care_.”

He watches them for a moment, then asks, “Do you believe me?”

A long pause, looking at him; he doesn’t drop his gaze, letting them look.

Finally, they sign, “Yes.”

“Good. I’m going to finish making sure I understood what you said, and then I do have a question, one I should have asked quite a long while ago. Is that plan ok?”

They nod.

“It makes you sad, you don’t want to talk about it. Then you said, ‘you don’t know me, no wait.’” He sits back, trying to recall what they signed and mildly surprised when he actually can. “Hmm. You were also stumbling through trying to match what you wanted to say with the limited number of signs you know. So maybe I misunderstood where the phrases were. Was it closer to ‘I know you don’t know,’ and then the rest was pretty much ‘hold on, let me think.’?”

They nod emphatically and punctuate it with “Yes!”

Quirrel smiles, then continues. “If that’s true, then I believe what you said next would be a repeat of ‘I know you don’t know’ and then… I think I’m going to take a stab at rewording it. If I’m wrong, I’ll go back to breaking it apart. Is that OK?”

“Yes.”

“I believe you were saying ‘You know I don’t know what is making you sad…’” they are waving their arms again, shaking their head.

“…ok. But I was right before?”

“Yes.”

“I said it a little bit different this time, and now it isn’t right?”

They wobble their hand side to side.

“What I said isn’t wrong, but it also isn’t what you meant?”

“Yes.”

Quirrel thinks for a little bit. “I think I see. When I was first trying to figure out what you were saying, my phrasing was ‘you don’t want to talk about it’ and ‘it makes you sad.’ I meant ‘What you want to talk about makes you sad,’ which is what you meant the first time, but when you said it again did you mean ‘talking about it makes you sad’?”

A nod, with a hand wobble.

“You used sad because you don’t have any other words for ‘upset in some way’?”

Another emphatic nod, “Yes!”

“I will use ‘upset’ for now, then,” signing upset as he says it.

They nod again and repeat the sign.

“So, we are at ‘Talking about it upsets me, so please wait’,” Quirrel pauses, thinking. “‘Please wait, I will tell you later, be patient.’,” he hazards.

“Yes. Please wait, thank you, cry stop.”

“Enough crying for now?”

“ **Yes**!”

“I quite agree, although there is no shame to it. It is quite exhausting in long stretches,” he says, rubbing his face.

They nod.

“Since we are putting that aside for now, I have a question; though I must admit I am a bit ashamed it comes so late.” He glances at his hands, and then back at them. “How should I address you? I do not know your name, if you…” Quirrel stumbles to a stop, knowing that they would not have been given a name originally, and from their conversation at the Blue Lake realizes that they may never have been given one.

Unsure of how to dig himself out of not only the first hole he was in, but this new one he just dug at its bottom, Quirrel decides that silence is best, and gives them a small shrug, a wry smile, and hopes for mercy.

They look at him for a moment, and then he hears a near-inaudible huff as they turn and look around the room. Worried, he starts to apologize, “I didn’t mean to…”

Waving their hands, they turn back around. “No! Happy, yes! Thank you, stop wait.”

Quirrel stops and waits for them to find whatever it is they are looking for. After a few moments, they give up and turn back to face him.

“Not” and then they start vaguely waving their arms around.

Taking a stab at what they are trying to say, he guesses, “Not here?” as he signs the same.

“Yes. Not here, come please.”

Quirrel stands up, pauses to allow the water to mostly stop pouring off of him, and then follows.

As they are heading back to their room, they suddenly stop in the hallway as if struck by a thought. Shaking their head and making a little huff, they pull out a slate and a piece of chalk as well as some fresh paper from under their cloak and wave them about, resuming their walk down the hall.

He chuckles and says “I see you found more than you originally sought; those should be quite useful. Did you get them from Iselda?” and manages to stop before asking his next question. Two yes-no questions stacked up when (almost) all you _can_ say is yes or no is an excellent way to get someone aggravated, and he has seen them fight. He doesn’t want them aggravated; he wishes to remain unpunctured.

They nod while flapping the papers, and then lift the slate while shaking their head.

“I see. Well, the slate and chalk will certainly be a bit easier to use for conversation. I am glad you found them.”

They nod as they reach their room, and then point to where he had slept.

“Do you wish for me to sit?” he asks.

When they nod again, he goes over to the blankets and sits down. They follow him, and then pause, as if unsure, standing in front of where he is sitting.

Briefly puzzled, and then realizing, Quirrel gives a little sigh.

“I suppose that, like most things ingrained, you will need to hear this many times before you believe me.”

They look startled at what he has said, sign, “Unsure.”

“I’m sure though.” He reaches forward, and moves to grasp their arm, slow enough that they can step back if the touch is unwanted.

“I was startled, my friend.”

They stand stock still, and he clasps the wrist of their hand holding the paper. They are trembling.

Quirrel speaks softly, looking directly into their unfathomable eyes. “Your touch is not repulsive. It is not offensive, nor repellant, nor abhorrent. Merely different. Colder than I expected, but not excessively so.

“So how about this: I grant you permission to touch me whenever you wish. If you have any reason to doubt that you should, please _ask me_ about it before assuming I don’t want you to.”

Quirrel shrugs, and gives them a half-smile as he says, “Unless I have completely misinterpreted your hesitation, of course.”

As he removes his hand from their arm, they drop the papers, slate, and chalk with a clatter and launch themself into his lap, clasping their arms around his neck and shuddering as their breath heaves. Quirrel wraps them in his arms and holds them tight.

“My friend… I’ll hold on. As long as you need.”

* * *

Sitting down in his lap, they reach out and grab the slate and chalk, and they write, Hornet called me a little ghost, and so I have chosen Ghost as my name. It’s nice to meet you, Quirrel. Friend. As he reads, they shift in his lap and once again wrap their arms around his middle; he sets the slate aside and wraps his arms around them.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Ghost.”

* * *

After a while, Quirrel chuckles. “It occurs to me, Ghost, that our earlier conversation would have been smoother had you remembered you had the slate and chalk.”

They nod, face rubbing against his chest. They give a little shrug, and a small huff that might be a laugh.

Ghost is still in his lap, a cold lump curled around his belly, their head propped on its rounded top and leaning against his chest. They are an extraordinarily efficient heat sink, and so he’s pulled his blankets up and around the both of them; it is still a losing battle.

He knows better than to let himself get too chilled (he’s fairly sure they would just add it to whatever is on their mental list of things that they assume are why he shouldn’t/wouldn’t/can’t possibly like to touch them), but he craves the contact. He hadn’t realized how badly he missed being able to hold someone. He wants to make sure they know he wants to, doesn’t find their odd texture and feel off-putting, and he knows a part of that needs include looking after his own health and avoiding hypothermia.

For now, he just loses himself in the comfort of holding and being held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ethnoentomology” is a cool word made by [Piston24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piston24/pseuds/Piston24)/[Wrongful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrongful/pseuds/Wrongful) for their [series/fic of the same name](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831015). I have used it with permission, although it won’t be used often. Similar to Anthropology, it is the study of bug culture, stories, history, and societal interactions. I thought that it summed up Quirrel’s apparent in-game passions quite well.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I’m not convinced that Quirrel was at the Blue Lake to do himself in, therefore this is most definitely speculative fiction for me. While I understand where the arguments come from, it was something that hadn’t even occurred to me until I started interacting with the fandom, which I had avoided until I reached a point in the game where I felt I couldn’t likely proceed.
> 
> I was wrong about my ability with the game, so I could be wrong about Quirrel.
> 
> I had never played anything besides the Sims, Civilization, XCOM, and other similar turn-based games; this game has one _hell_ of a vicious learning curve! But I went from “Hornet took me 9½ hours to defeat” two years ago to, once I decided to tackle him a month or so ago, “Nightmare King Grimm took me 2½ hours to defeat,” and I am _damn_ proud of myself.


	2. I was Drowning in the Desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost leaves Quirrel in the Pleasure House to handle a few things and find some writing materials so that Quirrel quits wyrming about them attempting to use their journal for conversation.
> 
> They get lost in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More exposition.
> 
> So much exposition.
> 
> (Sorry-not-sorry.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> No particular warnings other than I was on my own for editing this one.

#### Ghost

* * *

Ghost pauses just inside the door to the Pleasure House, absentmindedly watching the sentries march their unchanging paths.

So much has happened these last few days, on top of everything else that had already happened. Really, once things had _started_ happening they hadn’t managed to find a time to make things _stop_ happening, even just to process what all of the happenings are or might mean.

Too many happenings, happening all at once, perhaps it was a happenstance…?

And to think, they had once believed their life was dull and predicatble.

Yesterday, as they guided Quirrel away from the Blue Lake to their small haven, they had decided that things had gone too far. They needed to stop, so they could think and process what they had learned. Because just barreling forward hadn’t succeeded in solving any problems. Instead, it had damn near lost them Quirrel.

* * *

They had gone back to the Archives several times after breaking Monomon’s seal. Wanting to see him, listen to him, hear his stories again. But every time he had been busy, immersed in the records or his thoughts, barely aware of his surroundings. It had been easy to pretend they shouldn’t bother him, but the truth was that they had been afraid to. After all, they had killed Monomon as he sat there, watching. Why would he want anything to do with them now?

Quirrel had been one of the few happy constants in this hellhole of a kingdom. He’d always greeted them with a smile, talked about the things that he found interesting, and seemed genuinely happy to see them. He would help them fill in small details on their map or make comments on a few of their entries in the Hunter’s Journal.

They hadn’t worked up the courage to show him their personal journal, but it had sprouted several sketches of Quirrel. Along with Cornifer, and Iselda. And Cornifer with Iselda — or how they imagine that would look. Elderbug, Bretta, Myla… Oh, _Myla._ Their heart breaks when they look at those sketches now. Caricatures of Zote. Even one or two of Sly, the price-gouging bastard.

Ghost huffs a breath and dashes out into the lull in the marching.

They’ve had enough of death, and fully intend to just _run_ today. Run through the City, run to Iselda, run to Sly — pretend they can run away from it all, pretend they have a choice.

But they won’t; they _can’t_. They’ve learned enough to know they won’t leave, can no longer abandon this already-sunken ship.

Whatever this infection is, however the Hollow Knight is mitigating it, they have simply come to care for too many bugs here to just walk away. And they know themself well enough to be aware that, even if it had been a kingdom full of Zotes, they still wouldn’t have been able to turn their back, knowing they could have the solution. As aggravating and bothersome as he is, he isn’t _evil_. He doesn’t deserve what this affliction deals out; they haven’t met many who do.

They drop down from the balconies and slip into the aristocratic district, hiding against walls and ducking into the back alleys to avoid the high society husks. Sometimes, when they aren’t busy trying to slaughter their way through an area, they ponder on just how many distinct kinds of bug seem to have lived within this kingdom. It isn’t the usual way of things, in their experience. In most other lands they have visited, there are often just four or five kinds of sentient bug, specialized for the location. There were exceptions, but those tended to be at crossroads of travel and trade, and Hallownest seems to have been the _opposite_ of being open for travel and trade, even before the plague.

Even odder is how the bugs in this kingdom, dead as it is, seem to take Ghost’s otherness in stride. None of them are from Hallownest — well, OK, Quirrel is, but that had been a revelation to them both — and so it doesn’t seem likely that it is something inherent to this place. Even Hornet, who has demonstrated a behavior they are semi-accustomed to ( _kill the weird not-bug!!!_ ), doesn’t seem to be doing it for the typical reasons ( _it will steal our children to roast for its dinner!!!_ ). But it would have been nice if she had done something besides be cryptic and then repeatedly murder them.

They don’t consider her claims to be “testing” them to make sure they are “strong enough” as sufficient justification for repeated murder.

Also. Does that make her a serial killer? Or just a repeat offender?

* * *

They had been shocked when she didn’t seem surprised as they scrambled back into the clearing after the first fight had ended so poorly for them.

After the fifth time, she had called them “damn stubborn” and laughed. Technnically she had been laughing at them all along; this was just the first time it had sounded like something other than a taunt.

When they came back the seventh and final time, she had been speaking to the little corpse in the clearing, although they hadn’t been able to hear her words. They paused before dropping down, wondering. She stood as if grieving, head bowed, and then sang a brief unfamiliar tune. They shifted to drop, and she whirled around, eyes bright. As always, she pointed her needle at them in challenge, except this time she sketched just the tiniest bow before launching her attack.

Fighting something that was _aware_ was nice. A fight where they _didn’t have to kill_ someone who was aware — that part was extra-nice. Fabulous, even.

Everything after had been confusing as _fuck_.

In the scramble of the fight with Hornet, they hadn’t recognized that the other corpse in the clearing had been so much like them. Examining it afterwards, they could tell it had been there a while, but they were beginning to realize that didn’t mean much in this place.

It had been stabbed through with a nail similar to theirs; perhaps it had belonged to them, or perhaps their killer had taken their weapon after, abandoning this one. Maybe it was an entirely different story, how this corpse had met their end. Hallownest was full of depressing and vague stories, and being accosted by ghosts in the middle of their morbid investigation hadn’t helped their mindset.

The Dreamers had spoken over and at them in the glade where they had fought Hornet. Ghost hadn’t known who they were, just that there were three phantoms having an argument, that they couldn’t move, and it was vaguely insulting.

The second time Ghost listened to them argue was much later, just before the Dreamers pulled them into the Dream Realm. It had become clearer that one of them believed the seals should be broken; another believed that their duty remained — even though it had obviously gone to shit; and the third seemed ambivalent. The only identity they could be even partially sure of was Lurien the Watcher; the masculine voice was the one who thought the Dreamers should persevere. If they were right about Lurien, there had been no way to determine whether it was Herrah or Monomon who supported destroying the seals.

When they broke Monomon’s seal, they learned that she was the one in favor of destroying the seals, and presumably destroying the Hollow Knight. Ghost had eventually realized what that truly meant — she had wanted them to _replace_ the Hollow Knight.

They didn’t know why she thought that would work, why she thought Ghost would have better luck than the Hollow Knight had, especially without reinforcement from the seals. Maybe, like the Hollow Knight, she was exhausted and in pain; perhaps grief had left her desperate to try anything and believe it might work. Ultimately, no matter whether Ghost succeeded or failed, Monomon would no longer be there to know; perhaps that was why.

Which gave context to what Hornet had been saying, why they would need to be strong. And probably explained why she _hadn’t_ told them more, told them about what she wanted them to do, wanted them to become.

Wise choice, because they likely would have told her to fuck off. Some hand gestures didn’t need much interpretation to know their meaning; they were certain she would have gotten their point.

* * *

Too much thinking, not enough running. Also not enough paying attention to their path — Ghost slams into a sentry as they round a corner, and it fucking _hurts_ ; doubly so when the infected bastard gets another hit in while they are reeling.

Scrambling away, Ghost dodges and starts running again. They make it to the Hollow Knight’s memorial, and stop to rest. While breathing is an optional activity, and they don’t really tire from physical exertion, it does take a toll. If they run all day, they won’t collapse, their pace won’t flag, but once they stop, they won’t be going again any time soon. And they would sleep for two days solid. Not that this was based on personal experience of course; a mercenary would _never_ have gotten themself into such a fucked-up situation that they would have to run away for days.

* * *

They had died, once, out in the Wastelands. It hadn’t been anything like what happened after Hornet had killed them, or any of their subsequent deaths in Hallownest. It had taken over a week to return, they figured out later. At the time, it had seemed unending. Floating through unrelenting darkness, stretching themselves further and further away from wherever it was they had been sent. Thinning out, fading away as they searched, fought to get _back_. Dissipating into the in-between, until finally, _finally_ they had touched _something_ and popped back into being.

Ghost had been leagues away from their shade — and hadn’t that been another hell of a shock. Not only did they come back from the dead, but they had been missing half of themself and had to hunt it down. And _then_ it had had the _audacity_ to be _pissy_ about it; they had needed to fight it back into their shell. So, while it seemed better than the alternative, they had resolved to never let it happen again. They had almost given up while in that nebulous in-between, and the idea of abandoning themself to the unending dark terrified them.

* * *

They had succeeded in that oath, until Hornet.

They didn’t even remember the transition from dead to sitting on the bench.

At first, they had thought the reason that coming back had been near-instantaneous was because they were so deeply _pissed off_ at her and that fight. Later, they realized that it couldn’t have been that. Their anger and rage at that first death in the Wastelands had been vast and all-encompassing due to the nature of the ~~job that they had just failed to complete~~ bug they had failed to kill.

How desperate that town had been, that the people had come to them for help. Isolated, cut off by geography and war, and a monster in their midst. Ghost had died to an ambush, mind howling at their failure, grieving for the retribution they knew the townsfolk would bear — and it had been _brutal_.

They had been ruthless when given the second chance.

* * *

Ghost had believed they could never again be so enraged with someone, but the Soul Master had managed. Moving through the deeper parts of the Soul Sanctum after killing his husk had kindled something terrible within them. As if, had they only been able to touch it, they could have awoken within themselves the power to destroy not only the Sanctum, but swallow the entirety of Hallownest and still not have been sated. It had only lasted a moment, but Ghost had been aghast by the implications of what they might have done.

They had dreamed of darkness with bright white eyes for days after, a seething mass that would subsume them in its fury.

They had gone back into the Sanctum after the dreams had calmed. Once upon a time, someone had told them that rage was unconfronted grief. There was a grain of truth to the sentiment, but it was a gross oversimplification. When they had found the Soul Master laying there, surrounded by Dream Essence, they had been terrified. Not in fear of what was likely another fight within the Dream Realm, but in fear of what they might find within themself.

Eventually, they had turned around and walked away.

Ghost knew they would have to face him again in order to eradicate his touch on this world. But they needed to be stronger, they needed to have a reason to come back, to not be consumed by that dark monster within.

* * *

Ghost turns and contemplates the memorial.

The Hollow Knight had called out, through the darkness that filled their body. An exceptionally long time ago — one of their earliest memories — someone had told them it was Void. Had been absolutely fascinated by it, and highly disappointed that Ghost couldn’t tell them (him?) anything about it.

The call hadn’t been strong, barely reached where Ghost had been. It had felt familiar, like what they imagined people meant when they called someplace a home. A cry of desperation, grief, and pain; misery amplified by the hopeless desolation of knowing there was no one to hear, that no one would be coming. That cry had awoken something deep within Ghost; they yearned to be with them, to save them, felt as if they were a part of who Ghost was.

And so they had left the little country they’d been wandering the last few years and followed the faint pull. They didn’t know whether or not to hope that this someone had felt their echo, knew they were coming. It was going to take a long time to reach them.

Ghost arrived in Hallownest a touch over a year later. While the pull had remained, it hadn’t grown much stronger as they drew closer. They didn’t know if that was because this person was weakening, or because this tie wasn’t affected by distance. In the end it didn’t matter, because the journey took as long as it took — Ghost didn’t have a way to be faster.

Now, many weeks later, Ghost sits in front of the Hollow Knight’s memorial — metaphorically catching the breath they don’t need — contemplating what they have learned. This someone has a title (The Hollow Knight), they have been locked in a temple (as a _sacrifice_ ) that is disintegrating around them, and they are being consumed. Immolated.

Ghost’s whole being now reverberates with it.

When they had broken Monomon’s seal it had felt as if liquid fire had been poured into their heart, blossoming out and filling them up until they couldn’t hold it any longer and it burst free, consuming the world.

After they had clawed their way out of the burning dream, they had awoken to see Quirrel watching them with sad eyes as he sat next to an empty tank of acid. He had talked to them a little, spoken of their burden. It sounded like he had regained some memories; it sounded like he had been destroyed.

They didn’t know what to do; what to say; how to help. He had looked so small, so lost and defeated. Quirrel had called them “friend” and meant it. That hadn’t happened before. Not like this. They didn’t know how to be a friend, didn’t know how to be something beyond a mercenary that fixed other bug’s problems by killing or finding something or someone. So they had walked away, back out into Fog Canyon, grieving the loss of something they had never fully grasped.

They hadn't meant to return to the Archives, but the longer they avoided them — avoided Quirrel and his pain — the more agitated and anxious they became, until finally they couldn’t stand it. They went to look, because they knew he wouldn’t want to speak with them — they were Monomon’s killer. And while they hadn’t ever loved, ever been loved, they knew the shape of it from the outside. Quirrel had loved Monomon deeply, even if he didn’t, couldn’t remember it.

They watched him from around corners, or behind tubes of acid, not approaching. He looked up and saw them once or twice but didn’t call to them, and each time they left without going closer.

So, rather than cope with what it meant — they had killed the one Dreamer who had agreed to it, and the two remaining hadn’t — they filled their time with other activities. There were plenty of them — gathering Essence for the Seer had been the recent focus, but there was always grub seeking, and they still hadn’t figured out where in this gods-forsaken kingdom Hornet had meant by “Grave in Ash.” Cornifer hadn’t been much help when they had asked him as he sat in the little niche in Fog Canyon — and how the _fuck_ had he gotten there? “A little singed by acid” their ass; they had needed to _swim through it_ to get there, and they are much smaller than he is!.

They had finally screwed up their courage and decided to ask Quirrel.

* * *

Quirrel hadn’t been at the Archives when they arrived. They hadn’t expected that, although they probably should have. Everyone moves around, needs to gather supplies, goes places. But when he wasn’t there, Ghost’s mind just blanked. They sank to the floor, feeling lost. After a while, they stood back up and wandered out into the thick, clinging air.


	3. You Were a Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost has an extremely horrible, awful, no good time.
> 
> * * *
> 
> You all know that the minute someone writes a scene with Quirrel at the Blue Lake for ≈4,000 words, no one was having fun.
> 
> So this is a supplemental, additional warning that this is one of the chapters that strongly needed the tags. If you can comfortably read something with the tags _Suicidal Ideation_ , _Suicidal Thoughts_ , _PTSD_ , _Flashback_ , and _Body Dysphoria_ — and don’t think you need additional information — then you can skip on over the Chapter Notes if you don’t want the (fairly vague) spoilers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t use the _Suicide_ tags for something that only gets bypassed at high speed. Do not ignore them if they are in any way an issue for you. This includes poor situation handling by Ghost; they are both in bad places and it shows.
> 
> The _Body Dysphoria_ tag is related to how Ghost thinks their body feels, and not how it looks. It is texture, not appearance. Their reaction to it is very strong here, but by the time it comes up they are already extraordinarily emotionally charged.
> 
> The _PTSD_ , _Flashbacks_ , and _Panic Attack_ tags are because I use Ghost’s PTSD (both from recent and ancient events, not all of which they recall) as a literary device for a flashback to Blue Lake. This includes their mantra to attempt to regulate their response to the flashback, as well as them failing partway through, and subsequent panic attack.
> 
> If these are things you do not want or should not read, skip this chapter. The [bullet-point summary of the important details](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28366389/chapters/69501732) has been posted as a separate work in this series.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Once again, many thanks to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing assistance!

#### Ghost

* * *

With a jolt, Ghost finally recognizes what has been building up — the pressure in their chest, the involuntary breathing. They need to find somewhere to hole up. Ghost had hoped to push it off further (denial is always an excellent coping strategy that never _ever_ backfires), but sometimes life’s a wyrm.

Besides, in their effort to not think, just run, they had gone and run off the wrong damn way if they had wanted the closest stag station.

They can feel their hands starting to tremble — there isn’t enough time, they need to go _now_. Back to their room is straight out (the thought of Quirrel seeing them like this — without prior explanation — makes their chest seize up, which doesn’t help), but there are plenty of homes in the buildings they just left. There are extremely few advantages to being mute; the fact that they won’t attract attackers by wailing and sobbing is on the short list. Gathering themself up they run back the way they came.

Ducking in through the first door they see after dashing down an empty street, they are distantly aware that while this room is dark, somehow the kitchen has light and they stumble towards it. Dark is _bad_. It turns out that this room isn’t a kitchen — they have no clue what the fuck this room is — but the next room has one of the grand viewing windows that dot every floor of every building. Staggering into the room, sobbing, they make sure they are facing the window as they collapse to the ground, begin their mantra ( _Quirrel is alive. This isn’t happening now, it’s over, Quirrel is **alive**_ ), and lose themself into the past.

* * *

They are walking back to the Crossroads from the Resting Grounds. Going by the Blue Lake is an impulse, but seeing the lake again sounds soothing, and crossing it will be a nice, mindless activity.

…wrong, they had been so wrong, it **wasn’t** nice, or mindless, or, or—  
STOP  
Quirrel is alive.  
This isn’t happening now, it’s over, over, it’s over…

Quirrel is sitting on the shore, shrunken and forlorn. Adrift.

They walk over to his side; he looks up and greets them warmly. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and his voice is bemused. What he says doesn’t match how he seems, and when he finishes talking and returns to gazing over the blue waters, they _know_.

Quirrel is done.

He is going to go somewhere he can’t come back from — he will walk away into the glowing lake while they are left behind, left in the dark, sealed away.

…he didn’t, he’s alive, that didn’t happen,  
this isn’t now, you weren’t left behind…

Sitting down beside him, they gaze into the lake. Why hadn’t they realized that it glows before? The light refracts around the room, and a soft burbling comes from somewhere.

Where is all the water coming from? Quirrel had said he wanted to find the source of the rain in the City of Tears, but this isn’t it. The lake is merely a resting spot, a place where the water pauses between where it comes from and where it is going.

Ghost stands up and walks to the lake’s edge. Squatting down, they put their hand into the water. It’s chilly, but not as cold as they are. No different than it was when they swam across the lake previously. They swish their hand back and forth, watching the ripples, trying to see the faint glow in the smaller droplets. Reaching further in, they pull out an oblong pebble slightly longer than their hand but narrow. Wet, it has striations of deep red and dark grey, and sparkles slightly. They rock back and stare blankly across the water, rolling the pebble between their palms.

What comes next? If they sit here forever, will Quirrel stay? He needs to eat, to drink. He would need to leave to do those things, or die of dehydration, or go through with his plan in front of them.

Would they stop him if he did?

…yes, **yes** , you would, you **would**.  
Quirrel is alive, he’s alive…

How does drowning feel? Without breathing, it isn’t an option or a danger. The lake is more than cold enough to induce hypothermia in a bug, but not them.

Do they have any right, any place, to ask him to keep living? They won’t be here, so why should their opinion matter? They like to think it might have, before all of this. Now? After what they’ve done? No; how could it?

But oh, how they wish it _did_.

…it does.  
Quirrel is your friend,  
what you think **matters**  
and **he’s alive** …

Ghost stands up again and turns around. Quirrel is looking at them, vacant. Walking slowly, they go over to him, but he doesn’t track. His gaze eventually shifts back over to the lake, and they feel their world crumble. When they sit back down, beside him, he doesn’t even shift.

Leaning forward, they use the pebble and start to write in the sand.

Will it be fast?

Sitting back, they wait. After a few moments, Quirrel looks down at what they wrote and straightens up a little.

“I… I don’t understand, my friend. Will what be fast?”

Anger shoots through their chest, and they scribble, I am not an idiot.

Looking up to make sure he has seen their words, they swipe their hand over them and then circle and underline their first question.

And wait.

He murmurs, “I…I don’t know. But it shouldn’t take long. I…I am sorry.” He turns away.

They sit back again, staring over the lake. Wishing they knew what to do.

Leaning forward again, they erase the question. Write, I want to help.

Quirrel shifts a little, turns back to read what they said.

“You are helping. You get to save the world, or at least this corner of it.”

Ghost wants to _scream_. Instead, they erase and write again.

That is _not_ what I mean and you damn well know it.

Quirrel startles, nearly sitting upright, and Ghost slams their hand across the words, scattering sand across the beach.

At least **pretend** to be having the same conversation I am.

Glaring while he reads, they wait until he looks up and meets their eyes.

“I…”

They interrupt by once again dashing their hand across the message, destroying it. Refuse to look up at him.

He goes quiet, and then says, “I am sorry. What I said was rude and unkind.” His hand moves a little, as if he is going to reach out, but then it drops back down to lie listlessly by his side. He whispers, “I wish I believed there was something that you could do.”

So do they, so do they. Heartbroken, they pull their legs up to their chest and wrap their arms around them, resting their chin on their knees, and resume watching the lake without seeing.

…not now, this isn’t now, he’s alive,  
he came back with you,  
he didn’t leave you behind,  
this is not… not…  
happening now…

“Please… don’t hate me for this.” he whispers.

They look up, confused.

“I can’t… I am not strong enough. It’s…” He’s hunched over again, and his hands are in front of his face, forming fists he’s shoving against his eyes.

“They won’t _stop_ but they are never _there!_ ” he wails. “Like bubbles in the acid, they form and fizzle and pop into _nothing_ before I can even catch them! Or if I do, they are so small and separate that they mean nothing!” Waving his arms around he continues, “And I am _surrounded_ by them!”

Quirrel chokes on another sob, gasping. “Everywhere I look there are thousands of disconnected motes of memories, isolated and innumerable as they fizzle out of existence! Where do they go? If I don’t catch them, are they gone forever?”

He curls up into himself, moaning softly, and whispers, “The fabric of my life is gauze, and holds nothing. I can’t even hold myself together…oh gods, my friend, please forgive me.”

Why would they hate him? That doesn’t make sense.

…he still called them his friend? Why?

Dumbfounded, they look on as he weeps.

Slowly they reach out and write again. I don’t hate you; I could never hate you. You are my friend. But I killed someone you loved. I don’t understand why **you** don’t hate **me**.

…you **still** don’t understand,  
but he doesn’t, he **doesn’t** ,  
and he’s alive, still alive, still…

When he doesn’t seem to notice that they’ve written, they tap the pebble against the side of their head, making a hollow clunk. He looks up at that, startled, and they gesture at their words.

As he reads, he murmurs “No, no, _no_ ; you had no choice.” He turns to face them and repeats, “You had _no choice_.”

They stare at him for a moment, then lean over and erase again, and write again. There are **always** choices, and I

Quirrel moves to grab their hand, and they flinch back before he can touch them. He doesn’t move to follow, instead brushing the words away and firmly stating, “ ** _No_**.”

He takes a shaky breath as they glare and continues. “Yes, but _no_. The choices were one death, now, clean and quick; or many hundreds more, slow and painful, and she _still would have died_. Just because this is currently contained here, within Hallownest, does not mean that here is where it will end.”

Quirrel is being obtuse.

Not just one. They write. At least four more.

“My apologies, you are right.” Quirrel sits back, puzzled. “Although… there were three Dreamers, yet you say there must be at least four _more_ deaths? I don’t understand.”

Possibly more than obtuse, but perhaps he doesn’t realize.

Herrah, Lurien, the Hollow Knight.

Quirrel goes still, then whispers, “The Hollow Knight is still _alive_?”

Watching him, they nod.

“How do you know?”

I can feel them, I can feel their pain. They called for help, for release.

He shudders, and in a low voice says, “By the Light, what have we _done_.”

…you’ve done so much, killed a defenseless… no…  
Quirrel is still alive, still your friend,  
you don’t know why but he **is** , despite…  
what have you done…

Ghost slowly brushes over their words, thinking.

Quirrel is staring at them. As if he knows, dreading the answer, he asks, “You said four. Who… who is the fourth?”

They don’t answer immediately, fiddling with the pebble instead, watching the ripples in the lake.

I am in no position to judge your choice, where you go. When I walk into that temple

They stop when Quirrel gasps, and furiously scrub out the words as he watches in shock.

I don’t know what will happen.

Quirrel whimpers softly.

They gently wipe away the writing. I had hoped …they stop, at a loss for words. After a pause, they continue, that I would be saving my friend, someone I lov …mind catching up with their hand, with their heart, and terrified at what they just wrote, they fling their hand through the sand, trying to hide what they hadn’t realized.

—flooded by white-hot panic, gasping sobs,  
the thread of the mantra is gone—

Refusing to look up, they start again.

Once I enter that temple, I see no way I come back out. What I want has no bearing on the future.

Quirrel says in a low growl, “That is _not true_.”

With a small shrug, they erase the words. Because it is true, whatever Quirrel thinks of it.

—no, no—

My friend. May your journey be swift, may you find the peace you need.

Setting down the pebble, they stand up and move to leave. Quirrel gazes blankly at their message. Hesitantly, they reach out.

—no, no, nono **NO please** make it **STOP** —

Quirrel turns slightly, sees their hand, and stills.

—no—

And so they dare, resting their hand on his shoulder.

—please, no—

He inhales sharply and startles back; they yank their hand away, turn, and start running. Anywhere but here, away, they need to be _away_.

—away, make it stop, no—

“No! Wait! Please stop!”

They don’t, they can’t, it hurts so much worse than they had thought it would.

—it hurts, why did he,  
you shouldn’t have,  
no, please make it stop, please—

“Stop! Please, _please_ come back, don’t go…” Quirrel’s voice drops into a frantic plea, “oh please, don’t let that be your last memory of me, don’t go, just _wait_ …”

—last memory, it’s **not** the last memory,  
remember you touched and he didn’t… this is—  
… **this isn’t now**  
it was a misunderstanding,  
this isn’t happening now,  
Quirrel is **alive** , he’s alive…

As Ghost reaches the rocks at the edge of the sandy shore, they stumble to a halt. Sobbing without tears, vision fading until they can barely see, they wrap their arms around their middle as tight as they can.

…it hurt, but this isn’t happening now,  
Quirrel didn’t leave, alive, he’s alive…

Quirrel sounds panicked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pull back… you are… it felt… please, I can’t…”

Quieter, he pleads, “Please, turn around, even if you stay over there, I just… I want to see your eyes, see you.” In an almost inaudible whisper, “Please.”

Ghost nods, just barely. But it takes them a long moment before they can move, can turn around.

Their vision is still faded out some. Quirrel is a vague shape against the sand, against the blue glow of the lake. He has turned around and is halfway to standing, as if he had been ready to give chase but aborted. As they watch, he sinks down onto his knees.

He reaches forward with one hand, pleading for understanding, “I was surprised, at how cold it felt. But that is all. My carapace isn’t sensitive to much beyond temperature and pressure, on my shoulder.” He pauses briefly, drops his hand, and then continues. “How you reacted, makes me believe that there is more to it than that.”

…it is, so much more, it is…  
STOP  
He **didn’t** , he stayed, he’s alive, he’s alive…

It’s not a question, so they don’t respond.

He looks lost for words. “I don’t know what to say, whether to…” He glances down, and then he makes a small half-shrug before murmuring, “It seems there is nothing left to lose at this point, is there.” Looking back up, he asks “Can we try that part again?”

He reaches toward them with his hand, holding it palm-up, an invitation. They stare at it for a moment, before looking back up. They don’t move.

He drops his hand back down, discouraged, and says, “Or, to more literally try again, you could touch my shoulder… if you want.”

When they don’t respond, he sinks the rest of the way to the ground and sits, dropping his eyes to stare despondently at his hands, folding them in his lap. “Or not.” he whispers.

Freed from his distressed gaze, Ghost finally shifts minutely. They _do_ want. Want to touch, want to _believe_ , that it was just surprise at the chill, and not disgust at the sensation.

…you want, want him to stay, to live,  
to touch, to hold,  
and he is, he **is alive** …

Uncertain, they take a small step forward, then another. Quirrel notices then, and they freeze when he looks at them. His breath catches, then he seems to realize that his gaze is unnerving them and drops his eyes back to his hands in his lap. He clenches them briefly, then forces them to relax and instead laces his fingers together.

Ghost shivers, and then cautiously begins to walk forward. As they draw near, Quirrel briefly tenses up before actively relaxing.

“I’m terrified you are going to change your mind and run off,” he says softly. “Nothing more.”

Ghost nods, then realizes he can’t see them while he’s staring at his hands, decides it doesn’t matter. They stop when they are once again by his side, waiting. They aren’t sure what for, and Quirrel doesn’t do or say anything, remaining still and silent. Reaching out with their right hand, they lightly touch his left shoulder. When he doesn’t react, they hesitantly allow their hand to fully come to rest, watching intently, anticipating… but he remains still.

A drop of water falls onto Quirrel’s hands, then another — he’s crying. Unsure, Ghost starts to draw back, but he shakes his head and chokes out “No, don’t, you are fine.” His hands tighten around themselves, and he whispers again, “You’re fine.”

They remain there for a few moments, not moving. Quirrel is warm and it feels _nice_. Tentatively, they move their hand a little, feeling his carapace. They rub their thumb against one of the ridges, where it’s slightly smoother to allow the segments to slide back and forth with his movement.

…warm, and alive, and good,  
Quirrel is alive, still alive…

“May I move?” Quirrel asks, his voice gluey.

Ghost distantly recognizes that what he’s actually asking is for them to not withdraw, and they nod. When he doesn’t respond, they realize he’s still looking at his hands. So, they stop the gentle rubbing, and give him a gentle pat instead, and then let their hand rest where it is.

Quirrel inhales, breath shaky, and looks up. They hadn’t realized quite how close they were standing, but if they back up their arms are too short to reach. They don’t back up.

As they stare at each other, Ghost wonders what Quirrel sees in their eyes. Behind his mask, his are dark, warm, and full of tears, which continue to fall steadily.

Slowly, Quirrel shifts his right hand from his lap, bringing it up across his chest to his shoulder. Ghost tenses and he stops, instead laying it on his carapace near their hand.

“I won’t if you don’t wish me to, but I would like to hold your hand.” he says quietly.

…yes, you want that too,  
but just stay alive, don’t leave…  
he didn’t leave, remember…  
and he’s alive, still alive…

They turn their head to look at where his hand is resting by theirs, and one of their horns gently taps his mask. Their head snaps back to look at him, and he chuckles softly, a small hiccup at the end.

“No harm done, my friend,” he says; his voice is wobbly.

Ghost nods vaguely, turning their head back to look at his hand, their hand. Timidly, they shift theirs over until it touches the side of Quirrel’s and wait to see if he reacts. When he doesn’t, they deliberately lift theirs up and place it over the back of his.

After a moment, they lift their gaze back to his face, unsure. He looks like he’s hardly breathing, and then his breath hitches a little. Watching them closely, he turns his hand slightly and gently captures their fingers with his thumb and starts rubbing them in a soft circle.

…alive, and he came back, he chose to stay…

Bewildered, Ghost continues to simply stand there, at a loss as to what to do next.

Quirrel asks, “Are you alright? Do you want me to stop?”

Ghost shakes their head, pauses, then shakes it again.

“You’re shaking. Do you need to sit down?”

They are? They glance down, intending to look at their other hand, instead bonking Quirrel’s head again with their horns. As their legs suddenly fold under them, they decide that yes, they need to sit down.

…Quirrel is alive, he is here, he didn’t leave…  
this isn’t happening now, you aren’t there…

Quirrel doesn’t let go of their hand as they collapse by his side, leaving his arm awkwardly stretched across his middle, their hands by his hip, their fingers still clasped by Quirrel’s thumb.

They feel sick, they feel ecstatic. Too much, it is all too much; the world is fading out into a buzzing hum and starts to spin…

Ghost startles when they hear Quirrel’s yelp, his other hand suddenly behind them, catching them as they tip backwards. Fuzzily, they realize he’s reaching around them, has shifted and they are practically in his lap. The pressure from his hand disappears from their back, and he settles in front of them, a tight grip on the hand he was holding; is holding.

Their head is ringing, the buzz still there. Numbly, they just stare at their hand, dwarfed by Quirrel’s. Why is this so overwhelming? His hand is warm, it feels nice. Why hasn’t he let go yet? Theirs isn’t warm, doesn’t feel…

“…friend, please, respond; you’re scaring me, can you hear me?” Quirrel sounds like he is panicking, why? Is something attacking?

Ghost tries to stand up, but their legs don’t respond, and they tip forward.

Lunging, Quirrel catches them against his chest, and the world finally fades white and goes quiet.

**Quirrel lived.**

* * *

They startle, scrambling to their feet and drawing their nail. Panicking, chest heaving, trying to figure out what had attacked them, was going to attack; they whirl around. Where is it, where did it go? They can't see it; it must be hiding. But it was _just here_ , where the hell did it _go_?

Agitated, they start searching the room. The light from the large window lets them make progress fairly quickly, but the room is a _mess_ ; they can’t find whatever it was that attacked them, left them laying on the floor, unconscious. Defenseless. No one to protect them. They have to find what _attacked_ them, _why can’t they find it_ , where did it _go_ , it’s gone and _they aren’t safe_ , nowhere is safe, what _happened? Why can’t they **remember**??_

Tense and shaking, they work their way through the other rooms in the house, finding nothing. It’s _gone_. Back in the room where they started, they sit in the grand window with their back to the glass, nail held in front of them, shaking in terror and frustration, lost.

Alone.

They’ve been left behind, it’s all they deserve, why did they think it would be different this time?

Crying; heartbroken, but they can’t remember why.

* * *

Ghost startles, waking up with their back to the grand viewing window, their nail on the floor in front of them.

Their head _hurts_.

Fuzzily, they wonder what on earth they are doing in this place. Weren’t they headed to the stag station? To Dirtmouth? Why are they here?

Standing up, they immediately regret it as the pain in their head explodes. They stagger forward a step or two, decide that is _not_ a good idea, and sit right back down. The room is spinning, and they feel sick. Their nail is in front of them; leaning forward to put their hand on the hilt, they keep going forward and topple onto their face. They did manage to get their hand on their nail; counting that as a win, Ghost passes out again.

* * *

Groggily, Ghost wakes up. They are facing towards a grand viewing window, looking out over the second level of the City of Tears. Their hand is on the hilt of their nail, lying beside them. Debating the merits of sitting up, they watch the rain streak down the glass. It is pretty, and soothing. They decide sitting up can wait.

* * *

Ghost wakes up. The window is still there, as is the rain. And their nail. That’s an improvement over a couple of other times this has happened.

Sitting up, they try and take stock of the aftermath. They are _exhausted_ (normal), the headache is bearable (strong improvement over normal), and their hands are trembling a little (normal). They look around the room; it looks like it has been completely ransacked. Usually, that would mean they had had an unbelievably rough time, but here? Who the fuck knows whether the room had already been ransacked, or if they had been that driven. They think, based on the mildness of the headache, that it probably wasn’t them.

They wish they had some clue about how long they were out of it this time. Nothing to be done for that though.

Wearily, they stand up and begin the trek to the stag station. No more running; not today.


	4. You Could Be the One Who Listens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel deals with an exhausted Ghost, and the next morning they have a talk.
> 
> This doesn’t go as anyone expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally detest being left hanging after such an emotionally wrought chapter, so I’m posting this one as well. It isn’t unemotional, but ends on a much brighter note.
> 
> Again, many thanks to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing assistance.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This chapter has one mention of _Suicidal Thoughts_ as a passing reference, and deals with _Amnesia_ and _Catastrophic Memory Loss_. It also has Ghost being a smartass and an exasperated Quirrel.

#### Quirrel

* * *

It was late when Ghost had returned, utterly exhausted. Quirrel had seen it as they talked, but it is driven home when they collapse in his lap. He is now chilled to the point he needs them to move, but they are sound asleep. He isn’t naïve enough to believe that they are that comfortable with being next to him; the way they had reacted to his flinch when they first touched him spoke of deep pain, not something to be solved by some kind words and a hug.

Glancing around the room, he tries to decide how to handle moving them. He absolutely does not want them to think he… he doesn’t know. But he understands that if there is a way for them to take the fact that he moved them out of his lap as a rejection, whatever monster is in their mind will twist it around to that. He also has enough experience to know that if he tries to make a point of it _not_ being a rejection, that will make it worse.

Eventually, Quirrel decides not to overthink it. He bundles them up in the blanket he had used last night, lays them in his spot, and stands up. Stretching, he shivers and goes looking to see if there is anything he can use to make a meal. He had poked through the rest of the Pleasure House while Ghost was gone, discovering a rather… _disgusting_ kitchen. Digging around, there had been some items that appeared shelf-stable and intact which he had gathered up, but he hadn’t had the stomach to keep searching for long. He hadn’t paid much attention to what he was gathering, either; even the vague thought of eating had made the nausea unbearable.

With another chilled shiver, he steps over to where Ghost had slept last night and grabs their blanket, wraps it around his shoulders, and moves to dig through the little pile he had made.

Such a lovely collection he grabbed. Gods, this is going to be nasty.

A couple of fruit-based jams, candied pears, pickled… carrots? They look like white carrots. There had been a trend for a while, where carrots came in a wide variety of colors. These were either carrots, or he had found pickled horseradish. That would be a cruel thing to have done to horseradish. He _likes_ horseradish.

There were also a couple of tins of what appeared to be shredded crawlid, and the last jar was diced tomatoes. His arms had been full at that point, and he has had zero desire to go back.

Contemplating the limited options, he decides to brave the candied pears. He can’t think of anything they will mix with in this particular assortment, and he is still unwilling to poke through the cabinets in this room to see if Ghost has anything stored. He doesn’t remember where they had come up with what they fed him last night and doesn’t know if they normally eat much. However, the fact that there had been food here implies they do eat.

The pears are sickly-sweet, just as he remembers them being. He has never been a fan; the sugar overwhelms the delicate flavor of the pears. But he also figures that they are the _safest_ option since the sugar also overwhelms any bacterial growth that could have happened.

Finishing his… “dinner,” Quirrel decides that he is tired enough to try sleeping. He has nothing else to do — when he fled the Archives, he hadn’t taken anything but his nail. Eventually he will need to go back to retrieve his travelling packs and gear, but that time isn’t now.

Ghost is currently occupying the blanket he had used, and while he can use the pillows they had, their blanket is a bit small and wouldn’t cover his legs. Going down the hallway, he pokes his head into a couple of the rooms before locating a room with some remaining curtains. They are thick, luxurious, and absolutely filthy with dust.

Taking Ghost’s blanket back to their room to protect it, he also takes off his kerchief and lays it on a bench. He goes back to the room down the hall and starts beating the curtains.

Eventually everything in the room has a thicker coating of dust — except the curtains, in theory. Quirrel has his doubts. Deeming them as clean as they are going to get tonight, he hauls them down and drags them back to the room. Looking down at himself, he decides that he should rinse off; at least the activity has warmed him up.

Back in the room after a quick dip in the springs, Ghost is still fast asleep. Quirrel decides that there is more than enough curtain, and between the curtains and the blanket they are wrapped in, he ought to be able to sleep next to them without risk of hypothermia. Without knowing the specifics, he doesn’t know what will trip their sense of rejection. Hopefully being close will at least mitigate some of it, even if there are four layers of blanket and curtain between them.

Hauling their pillows over and making a nest around the two of them, he crawls into the pile. As he falls asleep, he blearily wonders if Ghost can overheat.

* * *

He is awoken the next morning when Ghost starts thrashing about. Groggily, he realizes that somehow or another they have managed to completely wrap themselves up, and the blanket is now tangled around their head and horns and they are struggling to get out.

“Hold on, hold on! Let me help get you untangled,” he says as he starts trying to find the edge of the blankets.

The cocoon that is Ghost goes suddenly still, and then starts frantically spinning about.

Realizing they may be disoriented enough to not realize it is him, he pulls his hands back and says, “It’s me, it’s Quirrel! I am not going to hurt you, just trying to help untangle you.”

They still again, and then the top half bobs back and forth; a nod.

“I am going to start now,” he warns them, figuring that since they cannot see they might appreciate the knowledge.

Finding the edge, it is relatively straightforward from there.

“I am going to assume that this is why you have more pillows than blankets?” he asks as their head emerges from the mess.

Ghost nods, and Quirrel continues, smiling, “I shall keep that in mind for next time.”

Now that their head is free, they scramble the rest of the way out of the blanket, stepping back and surveying the much larger mound of blankets, pillows, curtain, and Quirrel. They look back at Quirrel, and then gesture vaguely at the whole pile.

“Hmmm,” Quirrel intelligently replies.

They cross their arms and stare at him.

“Well, you fell asleep in my lap last night; do you remember that?”

They nod, then wobble their hand.

“Mostly?”

Ghost nods.

“Good. I hadn’t really noticed until I needed to move you out of my lap, and since we were already using my blanket, I put you here and wrapped it around you,” he explains. “I found some… food in the kitchen yesterday, so I ate a little bit and then decided I needed a bit more blanket than yours provided and went searching. I found the curtains down the hall and brought them back.”

They nod, then point over to where their nest had previously been.

“Ahh…hmmm.”

A small head tilt when he pauses.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

Ghost slowly nods, then looks around a little bit before miming writing.

“I put it on the bench over there,” Quirrel says, pointing.

They walk over and pick up the slate, then come back and sit next to him so that he can see as they write.

Did you sleep well?

“Yes, I did. And you?”

Yes, thank you.

Ghost erases the slate, then pauses before slowly writing, How do you feel?

Quirrel sighs. They sag a little bit, and he says, “No, well — ahh — hmmm. A fair question, and one I intended to ask you as well.”

They hunch a little more, huff, and write, I asked you first.

Quirrel snorts, “You did at that.”

He puts his hands behind him and leans back, thinking. “It isn’t anywhere near as overwhelming, here. I do not know if it is simply because I had not spent much time in this place, or whether there is something that increases how fast the memories return while I am in the Archives.

“If it is the latter…” he sighs, then leans forward. He pushes his hands under his mask and rubs his face, “I am glad for it.”

Dropping his hands, he looks down at his curtain-bedecked lap. He starts to fiddle with the fabric. “It hasn’t stopped, here, but the memory fragments are more…” he pauses, at a loss for words.

“It’s akin to the difference between light snowfall and a snowstorm. I can see through the flakes, here. If I am not trying to chase them, I can almost ignore them. While I was in the Archives…I couldn’t see anything except the flakes. Everywhere I looked was obscured by hundreds of thousands of little bits of myself, dancing through the air.” Quirrel shudders.

A small hand barely touches his forearm, hovering. He reaches over with his other hand and takes it; their fingers wrap around his as he captures their hand with his thumb.

He sighs quietly and continues.

“I couldn’t make sense of them. I honestly don’t even know if they have remained in my mind somewhere, or if they just passed on through when I couldn’t place them.” Quirrel makes a little hiccup of a sob; continues, “I don’t know which I hope it is, either.”

He looks up at the ceiling, takes some deep breaths. Feels Ghost squeeze his fingers a little and starts to rub the back of their hand with his thumb. He looks back down and over at them. They are simply watching him, listening, like they have so many other times. The only difference being the hand he is currently holding; and what a difference it makes. He squeezes it, gently.

“So many of those fragments have an emotion with them.” Looking back around the room, he continues, “Like many memories of everyday things, most of them don’t have strong feelings, but it still tugs me back and forth.”

“But some of them…” He pauses, grips their hand tightly. “Some of them have very strong emotions.” He shudders, curls forward into his lap.

“I never know what is going to hit,” he whispers, shaking his head. “It is hard enough, being back in the kingdom, knowing I am from Hallownest; lived here, had friends, had lovers, had _family_ … seeing what has become of this place… knowing I left, _I lived_ when so many did not…”

He is crying; again, always.

“But having these fragments of memories returning, never enough for _context_ but still containing the _emotion_? I keep going from neutral to _something_. Happy, then sad, then bitterly angry, or deeply amused, or aroused, or mildly aggravated, or pleased, or this, or that, or, or, _or_ …”

He trails off, trembling.

“It is so _exhausting_.”

He feels them gently lean against his side, cold and comforting.

“I just wanted it to _stop_ ,” Quirrel whispers, barely audible.

Ghost squeezes his hand, then pulls away before bodily shoving themself into his lap.

Giving up on containing it, he wraps his arms around them, rests his head on theirs, and weeps.

* * *

Quirrel sighs damply.

One would think he’d be getting quite used to it, although one would be wrong.

Ghost had scooted back when he started shivering; he had made a noise of protest at their withdrawal, but they just shoveled up more of the curtain, piled it up against his belly and chest, and dug themselves back in. He had had enough presence of mind to pull the blankets behind him up and over, and then had laid his head back on theirs, hands once again wrapped behind them.

They have been sitting like this for quite a while now. Quirrel tightens his arms a bit, giving them a hug, then sits up. He brings his hands forward, momentarily cups Ghost’s head, and then drops them down by their side.

“I would make some comment that I am not normally so weepy, but I can take some comfort in knowing you realize that, hmm?”

He feels them huff and gives them a wan smile.

Ghost stands up, reaches forward, hesitates; then they softly touch his mask. Their hand drops a little, beneath his mask, and barely brushes some of his tears. They drop their hand to their side, then lean forward and rest their forehead against his.

Quirrel brings his hands up, rests them on their shoulders, and squeezes briefly.

“Thank you.”

Ghost nods slightly, then straightens and steps back.

“Know sad, wait ok, you ok,” they sign.

“My friend, I am an awfully long way from ok,” he sighs, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

They huff again, sign, “You, me, yes,” and give a small shrug.

Quirrel snorts, says, “We do make quite a set.”

Ghost’s shoulders shake, quiet laughter.

“You know what I plan on asking, but I will offer that perhaps eating something first might be in order. Do you eat?”

Ghost nods, glances around a little and locates the slate. They step over and pick it up, then sit beside him again.

Yes, I eat some. Usually only after I get hurt or — they stop writing suddenly, move as if to erase, then they stop themself. They tightly grip the slate with both hands and sit there.

“Or…?” Quirrel asks.

They hunch over a bit, going tense.

“Is this something that you think is going to distress me?”

Ghost nods.

“I see. Is it related to what you wanted me to wait to ask about yesterday?”

They lean forward, head making a small click as it taps the slate, then shake their head. They look miserable.

He brings his hand up, very gently touches their back. Ghost flinches but doesn’t pull away.

Quirrel asks quietly, “Is this ok?”.

At their miniscule nod, he rests his hand on their back briefly, before starting to gently rub.

After a few moments, they relax some.

“Is it something about being what you are, a Vessel instead of a bug?”

They jerk upright and turn to stare at him.

Worried, he asks, “What?”

They glance down at the slate, then set it in their lap.

“You know I,” and then gesture up and down at their body.

Quirrel pauses, and slowly responds, “I know very little. You don’t know?”

Ghost shakes their head, looks back down at the slate, then stares across the room, thinking.

“I doubt I will forget to bring you back to what you almost said here, if you need to erase it for now,” he says.

They nod, then erase what is on the slate.

I know nothing about what I am. I had never seen anything like me until the corpse in Greenpath.

They pause while he reads.

He draws in a breath to speak, but they shake their head, “Wait please.”

So he says, “Alright.”

They erase the slate again, But I haven’t seen another one since, despite seeing a great deal of previously dead bugs here. Another pause, waiting. He nods, then they erase and continue, And so until the Dreamers tried to lock me into the Dream

They stop writing when Quirrel yelps, “ _What?_ ”

Staring at him a moment, they re-erase the slate and write, How many conversations are you going to remember for us to come back to? and then tilt their head a little as he finishes reading. He gets the sense they are mildly exasperated.

He covers his face with his hands a moment, torn between laughter and astonishment at what he is learning. He barks a laugh and drops his hands, “You make a fair point. However, I think both of them bear further explanation!”

Ghost snorts near-inaudibly, then shrugs. Choose then, oh curious one.

Quirrel laughs again, says, “You are quite the little sass!”

Another shrug.

“Alright. Finish what you were saying before the abduction.”

Clearing the slate, they continue, Not much to finish. Until they abducted me, I didn’t know for sure I came from Hallownest.

Waiting until he nods again, they write, I don’t have any memories of being here. My count of days doesn’t start until I got tired of keeping it in my head.

The words at the end are squashed, and it takes Quirrel a moment to parse them.

“Your _**what**??_”

Ghost slaps the slate down into their lap again and glares at him.

“Three then! No; four!” Quirrel throws his hands up, aggravated, and says, “I have no idea how long I was gone! And when I came back, Hallownest was at least hauntingly familiar, even when I couldn’t remember it! And the Dreamers abducted you! And you have something that can happen to you that is worse than getting injured that will upset me! I need some damn paper to keep _track_ at this point!”

He gets the distinct impression they are rolling their non-existent eyes, and they reach into their… he had always assumed they were reaching into their cloak; but now, at close range, he is almost certain that isn’t quite correct. He recalls how large their map is, the fact that they carried the slate and a decent stack of papers in there, and glares as they pull out said stack of papers from wherever it is.

“Now _that_. So five. Five things I wish to return to. _Thank_ you,” as he accepts not only the papers but a quill and an inkpot.

Ghost is shaking with laughter again.

“I am so glad I can be a source of amusement in my astonishment,” he grumbles as he writes.

The shaking grows stronger, and they topple over.

Quirrel sighs; prays, “Gods grant me strength and patience for the trials that have been set before me.”

Ghost rolls onto their side, curling up in stitches.

Amused — and elated to see them laughing — he sits back and watches.

Ghost suddenly sits up and grabs the slate, erasing it and scribbling, All truths have been revealed: I can store stuff because **I am a VESSEL**! and promptly topples over backwards again, quaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know when I thought of the Vessel quip. I do know I have been wanting to work it into something, _anything_ , for _ages_.


	5. My Deepest Inquisitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Quirrel learns far more about Ghost than he is ready to handle.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The numbers are stored in the Vessel.
> 
> So is the sass.
> 
> And the love.
> 
> (Ghost was right, a Vessel can hold so much.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, many thanks to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for the editing assist. They did a bit more lifting this time to rein in the talking, and I deeply appreciate it!
> 
> * * *
> 
> A convention I am going to use, when Ghost is writing long stretches of dialog on their slate, is “ - - - ” every time they stop to let Quirrel finish reading, and Quirrel nods to acknowledge he is ready for them to erase and continue. It will save us _all_ some pain going forward. If there is some reason unknown to me that this is a horrible idea, please let me know.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This chapter contains discussion of _Panic Attacks_ and _Flashbacks_ , as well as deals with _Headaches & Migraines_.
> 
>   
>    
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

Once Ghost has regained their composure — there is still the occasional twitch Quirrel suspects is giggling — they pick up the slate again and write, “I have marked nearly every day in a log while wandering.”

Once he has finished reading, they write, “I haven’t added them up again in a very long time.”

“Do you recall how many days you had the last time you added?” Quirrel asks.

“Vaguely. Over 64,000 days.”

“May I borrow the slate to do the math?”

“175 years, 81 days.”

Quirrel levels them a look. “Did you just do that math, or did you already know.”

A small snort, then “Just did.”

“…I seem to have included one too many letters when I called you a ‘sass’.”

Ghost starts quaking in silent laughter again.

“Moving on. That is still far short of how long I suspect I was gone; do you have any idea how long it has been since the last count?”

They shake their head. “A long time. How long do you think it was for you?”

“I am guessing somewhere between two hundred and fifty to three hundred years; closer to three hundred,” he answers.

Ghost pauses, stares at him, and then reaches into their cloak while maintaining full and deliberate eye contact. They pull out three small books, hand them to him, and start shaking again.

“Hmmm,” is all the response he dignifies that with.

As they continue to chuckle away, he ignores them in favor of looking over the journals. When he opens the first one, he finds a brief note that states they believe it has been 298 days from when they can first remember existing — what odd phrasing — and then a simple series of hashes. At first, they are all in neat little rows, without any grouping, and he groans internally. Halfway through the second page, however, Ghost seems to have realized how much of a nightmare it would be to count them without grouping, and the hashes get broken into sets of eight. The next six pages are rather haphazard in the arrangement of the sets, and at the bottom right of the sixth page it notes that it has been 1,954 days. The next page has a grid with divisions, and a note indicates that each page has 256 marks. All pages after that point follow the same grid, although they don’t have the lines. Each one has a small ‘x’ in the top right corner.

He skims through the first journal, and then the second, and notes that at some point the pages no longer have the ‘x’ in the top right corner.

Pointing at the mark, he asks, “Does this mean the page has been counted?”

Ghost nods.

Quirrel flips back, looking for the last marked page, and once he finds it sees that there is a number noted in the middle of the page, taking up two of the standard grids. 64,480.

“Oh esteemed calculator,” he says sarcastically, “you have it marked as 64,480 days on this page. There are seventeen more sets of eight on this page; I’ll start counting pages.”

As Quirrel flips the next page, they write “176 years, 196 days, accounting for leap years.”

“You are insufferable.”

Their shoulders are shaking, and they start kicking their feet against the floor in glee.

Quirrel shakes his head and keeps counting.

* * *

“Seventy-two pages left in this one, it looks like they all had the full set of 256 marks on each page.”

He picks up the third journal, makes sure it is following the same grid pattern — it is slightly smaller than the previous two — and looks back to note what they have written.

“83,048 days: 227 years, 136 days.”

Wryly, he comments, “Accounting for leap years, of course.”

“Of course!”

Quirrel shakes his head again and resumes counting.

* * *

“Ninety-nine pages with 256 marks, 25 sets of eight on this last page, then it stops.”

He watches expectantly and isn’t disappointed.

“108,592 days: 297 years, 113 days. Still accounting for leap years.”

How someone manages to snicker without making a sound is beyond him, but it is happening right in front of his eyes. He shakes his head fondly, picks up the quill, and notes the number of days in the journal.

“There we are then. Have you been tracking since you got here?”

Ghost wobbles their hand, writes “I have tried, but it is difficult for many reasons.”

“Hmmm. Well, this narrows down how long I was gone. I am guessing I left after you did, although I suppose there is no way to be positive. I still haven’t managed to put enough of my memories back together to be more certain, but The Hollow Knight was full-grown, and Hornet…”

Quirrel gasps, folds forward as a large number of memories suddenly connect. He hears Ghost drop the slate, then they start rapidly patting his shoulder.

“No, I’m ok!” he gasps. Whispers, “Just wait, it’s easier to simply ride it out.”

Quirrel’s vision is obscured by swirling motes as bits of knowledge come together, and light pulses at the edges of his field of view. He has never personally experienced a migraine, but some random bit of knowledge trundles through the fireworks and informs him that this is likely not going to be true after today.

“I retract that statement; I think I am going to pass out.”

He was right.

* * *

Quirrel wakes up and regrets it.

Everything is too bright, the silence is too loud, and his head has fallen off.

Quirrel groans.

His vision is suddenly overwhelmed by a white orb with two void-black circles. It somehow manages to exude extreme worry and fear.

“Where did you put my head?” he whispers. This doesn’t seem to help, somehow. He starts to shake his head, and the world explodes into white pain.

He may have screamed.

When he can see again, the white orb is still there, but it seems to be vibrating a bit. A ‘yes’ to the screaming then.

“Ahhh…” he starts, figuring he should apologize, but the orb starts shaking back and forth so he stops.

They withdraw, allowing the light in the room to hit his eyes again, and he wails. They immediately reappear, and he manages to whimper, “Please, cover my eyes; the light…”

They look around, move a little, then cover his eyes with the edge of their cloak while they reach beyond and grab something and put it over his face. The relief is intense, and he whimpers.

He feels Ghost start patting his shoulder, whispers, “No, it’s much better, thank you.”

They stop, and he feels them withdraw.

He murmurs, “Wait, I have an idea. Cold can help some people with migraines; are you willing to lend me your hands for a while?”

His right hand is suddenly in a death grip, which he takes as a yes.

“You may end up needing to remove my mask,” Quirrel whispers, “I give you permission.”

They squeeze his hand briefly.

“Mom always said it helped the most when the cold could be applied in the area just over her eyes and in towards her antennae,” he tells them quietly, not questioning where the knowledge is burbling in from. “Although sometimes it worked better up behind her mandibles and around behind her neck. Let’s try the first one to start with.”

They squeeze his hand again, then let go. He hears them shuffle around his head. He feels the cloth over his eyes start to slip and he reaches up to grab it and hold it in place; discovers it is his kerchief.

They stop moving, and nothing happens for a moment. He’s about to say something when he senses them gently touch his mask; they tap it twice, drop their hands down behind it, and then rest them on his forehead. He shudders and feels them start to withdraw. Before he can respond, they stop and then simply wait.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Can you move them im closer to my antennae?”

Their hands move, and then lay still. It feels _wonderful_. He groans, “Mom would have _killed_ to get your hands on her like this.”

* * *

Later, Quirrel comments, “It is probably for the best we never got around to eating breakfast, Ghost. I think it saved us some cleaning.”

A gentle huff. They shift their hands and start making gentle circles with their thumbs just above his eyes.

Quirrel hums in gratitude, and they both go back to waiting.

* * *

At some point, Quirrel had fallen asleep. He wakes up when he feels a slight tap on his mask, and sleepily mumbles, “Hmmm?”

He doesn’t get a response, but without uncovering his eyes, the options are limited, and he is content. Ghost’s hands are still on his forehead, gently rubbing. The pain is mostly gone, and it feels nice to simply lay there and rest.

He unthinkingly asks, “How long has it been?”

Ghost huffs, and he realizes.

“My apologies,” he sighs, “that was rather silly of me.”

Their left hand stops rubbing briefly to give him a small pat, then goes back to massaging his temple.

He reaches up and tentatively lifts the kerchief a little bit, letting in some light — only to discover the room is mostly dark. He removes it and then tilts his head back, trying to see Ghost; they must figure out what he is trying to do, because they lean forward so that he can see them.

“The room is dark,” he astutely observes.

Another huff, and they nod.

He stares for a while, then asks, “Did you know your head glows?”

Ghost nods.

Quirrel decides he needs to stop stating the obvious; he is probably worrying them.

“Thank you,” he says softly, reaching up and touching their face.

They lean into his touch, then nod.

“Despite how lovely this feels, I believe it is time to try and approach the day again,” he sighs.

Another tiny pat, then their hands disappear. They lean forward and touch their forehead to his before withdrawing.

He curls forward and sits up, looking around the darkened room. Ghost walks back in front of him, watching him carefully.

“I’m guessing you darkened the room sometime after I fell asleep?” he asks.

“Yes,” they sign.

Quirrel thinks for a few moments, then says, “Mom’s migraines usually lasted one to eight hours, longer if we couldn’t find painkillers and something cool for her to use. How long would you estimate this one was?”

Ghost holds up two fingers, pauses, then adds a third.

“Two to three hours?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if this will come as a relief or a worry, but I have never had one before.”

“Upset.”

“I’m sorry. But I am extremely glad you were here to help; thank you.”

“Yes, I happy here you.”

Quirrel smiles. “Shall we eat something, and then I can tell you what I just so painfully remembered? Although I think more came together than I realized; I just may not know what all of it was until I run across it. I hadn’t realized I remembered Mom had migraines… I wonder how many other memories have come back like that; silent until I stumble across them?”

He starts to stand up, but returns to the floor when they tell him, “Stop!”

“Yes, yes, alright; I’m sitting.”

Watching Ghost walk over to one of the lower cabinets he muses, “Truthfully, that is how most memories work, I suppose. I should be thankful I am not being subjected to a real-time playback of the first thirty years of my life.”

Ghost starts rooting around; he sees their shoulders bob a bit, and guesses they nodded. When they emerge, he sees they are holding some dried meat and a jar of pickled carrots — these are a golden yellow.

“So that is where you store the food.”

They pause, then cock their head a little as they look at him.

“I didn’t want to be nosy and rifle through your belongings; it would have been rude,” he responds.

Ghost stills, tucks the carrots under the arm holding the jerky, and then signs, “Thank you.”

Quirrel wonders again at his friend’s experiences; why the base assumption is that he would have rummaged through their possessions without their permission.

He points over to the little pile of food he had brought back and says, “I gathered some earlier, I can put them in with yours if you are amenable.”

They glance over at it, nod, and finish coming over to him.

Investigating what they are showing him, he takes a piece of jerky and eyes the carrots. They hold the jar out to him, and he takes it. They hold the jerky out to him again, and he shakes his head.

“My species is mostly herbivorous; I do need some meat proteins, but too much and it upsets my digestion. Especially at the moment, when it is already a bit upset.”

He eyes the carrots dubiously and adds, “Although I am not sure that pickled vegetables will be a vast improvement.”

Shuddering as he opens the jar, he says, “It does not help that my dinner last night was half a jar of candied pears.”

Ghost perks up at that, “Me please?”

“Do you want the rest?” he asks.

At their enthusiastic nod, he points to the jar beside the food he had brought. “They are over there, and you are very welcome to them.”

Quirrel laughs as they make a little hop and then dash over to the jar of pears.

* * *

Ghost finishes the pears off quickly — including the syrup — then goes about the room, restoring the lumafly lanterns as Quirrel eats. Once they are done, they come back over and sit in front of him, calmly watching him eat.

Quirrel tips the jar of carrots towards them, but they shake their head. Taking one more out of the jar, he closes the lid and sets it aside.

“I do feel much better,” he reassures them.

“Happy,” they sign with a nod. “Please” — they gesture where their mouth theoretically is — “me” — a brief pause, then they lean in a little and point at his head.

“Yes, although I think it is time to try and expand how many signs you know as well.”

They shrug, then sign, “Yes, wait you.”

“Wait until later?” he verifies.

Ghost nods.

“I’ll start by telling you what I just remembered, and we can go back to my list after,” he says, then glances around when he realizes he has no idea where it ended up.

Ghost points to the cabinet with the food, and he sees papers on top of it. He nods acknowledgement.

“I am going to preface this by stating that I do not know if this will have any relevance to our current situation or goals.”

Ghost shrugs, signs “Ok, go, no know upset.”

Quirrel gives them a brief smile, then sighs deeply. “As I had tried to say, when I left the Hollow Knight was full grown and Hornet was six. I left directly after the Pale King placed the final bindings on Monomon.

“It was a long, stressful event, and started extraordinarily early in the morning. I do not know what was done within the Temple — the Pale King was alone in there with the Hollow Knight. Whatever was being done took a couple of hours while the Dreamers waited outside. They were each allowed a couple of close attendants; I was with Monomon, she had also brought along…”

Quirrel pauses, thinking, then tightly shakes his head. “I cannot pull her name, although I know her face. She was a friend of mine, although not close. Who she was is unimportant right now, I suppose.”

Ghost leans forward and pats his knee; he returns a small smile.

“Lurien had only brought his butler. Herrah had chosen one of her Devout as well as Queen Vespa.” He lights up, claps his hands, and says “Oh, wasn’t _that_ just a brilliant choice!” He looks at Ghost, grinning, and continues, “The Pale King did _not_ get along with Queen Vespa at _all_. But he couldn’t reject Herrah’s choice in attendants. It was a brilliant way to get a last jab in,” he chuckles.

“In any case, whatever the Pale King was doing within the Temple pulled from the Dreamers. I am only moderately sensitive to soul use, but I could see the links being made between the Dreamers and the Temple entrance.

“Once he came out, he made some final connections between the Dreamers and the Temple. He then linked them to each other, and then to himself. After that, they were sent back to where they had chosen to rest, so I do not know what happened with Lurien and Herrah, although I would hazard a guess it wasn’t much different than the final spells placed upon Monomon.”

Quirrel shudders, then continues, “We went back to the Archives and waited in her office; that was where her resting tank had been installed.”

He unconsciously clenches his hands into fists. “I was incredibly angry, but I can’t remember _why_. It wasn’t just that she was becoming a Dreamer, or that I was being asked to take her mask and leave; I _can_ tell that.”

Looking down into his lap, Quirrel sees his hands in fists, and forces them to relax with a soft puff of bitter laughter.

“Monomon and I had been arguing for days — whatever the topic was, the fight was _dreadful_. But once we returned to the Archives, whatever it was had become moot. Instead, the three of us discussed trivial things.”

Sighing, he looks back up at Ghost. They are very still, watching him, listening to him. He gives them a drawn smile.

“Ehsan… ahhh. That was her name then.” He stares off into space, body rigid.

He jolts when Ghost finally leans forward and touches his leg, bringing him out of his thoughts.

Quirrel exhales harshly, then goes on. “Ehsan left after a while; I think she had been there as a buffer, to make sure Monomon and I didn’t spend those last moments fighting. I remember feeling grateful for it.

“Monomon and I talked some after she left, just… insignificant things. She was holding my hand, after a while. I don’t think it was something she did often — I have a sense Monomon wasn’t much for personal contact — so it was likely for my benefit, since I am.

“Eventually we ran out of words, and there wasn’t much else to do but wait.

“The Pale King went to Herrah first; I believe the intention was to make the whole ordeal as short as possible for Hornet’s benefit.”

Quirrel makes a small shrug and looks back down into his lap, clasps his hands together. “I suspect that most of the time we spent waiting was due to travel, because it was late afternoon before the Pale King made it to the Archives.

“Once he was there, the final bindings took less than ten minutes. He turned to me… turned to me and said, ‘I do not Know or Foresee what you two have planned. The Teacher believed it critical this be done, and so this was the requirement she made to becoming part of the Binding.’”

He looks at Ghost again and says, “I actually hadn’t known that before he told me; I don’t know why _she_ hadn’t told me.

“He then reached up and put his hands on either side of my head and did… something for a few moments. When he stepped back, I felt like my mind had been wrapped in cotton.

“He told me that the spell wouldn’t fully activate until I was at least 30 leagues out of Hallownest or five days, whichever came first; and that for at least the first year it would push me further and further away from the kingdom.

“After that… there is a gap. A fragment is still missing, I suppose. The next thing I recall, the Pale King is facing Monomon with his hands on her tank and his head is bowed. Shortly after, her mask started dissolving into fragments which floated out and then reformed over his head. Once it was fully formed, he stepped back, and it floated down into his lower hands. He turned around and added spells and bindings to it.

“When he was done, he looked up and told me that Monomon had requested bindings of protection, agelessness, and happiness be placed on her mask. He said that he had completed those for protection and agelessness, but that he wanted me to choose whether or not to accept the happiness, that… he said, ‘I would inform you that while this is not a mind controlling spell, merely an enhancement, should you ever lose the mask or break these bindings the sudden alteration in brain function could result in extreme depression.’”

Quirrel sighs. “I cannot even begin to imagine how I would be feeling now, had I chosen to let him add that aspect.

“I remember him placing the mask on my head, with a brief comment that I would likely want to find a cloth or other protection to keep it from irritating my antennae.

“There is another memory gap, then a brief moment outside the Archive looking back, but that is all.”

Looking at Ghost, Quirrel shrugs miserably and says, “That is all that came together now, as far as I’m consciously aware.”

Ghost stands up and goes to fetch the slate. When they come back, they briefly touch his shoulder before sitting, and then lean into him for a few moments before they begin to write.

“No wonder your ‘head fell off.’ That is a lot to take in at once.”

Defeated, Quirrel says, “I am afraid I disagree. While an important one, it is one small event from my life, and—hey!”

Ghost had jabbed him firmly with the chalk. They glare, and then write, “A full day of memories in 5 seconds is intense.”

“But it— _stop that!_ ” as he is even more viciously jabbed with the chalk.

They erase the slate, then inform him that, “If you take 30 years of waking hours and do the same math, you perceive a life in 15.2 hours.”

They are glaring at him.

“I don’t see how—don’t you _dare_!” as he is threatened with the chalk.

Ghost stops, then sighs and erases the slate again. They stare at it blankly for a long moment, and then they slump a little bit and write, “I don’t think a mind could survive that compression, Quirrel.”

This time they are just looking at him sadly. He inhales to talk, but they hold a hand up, and write again. “I can’t even begin to imagine your frustration and pain, but I can see it is hurting you.”

Quirrel slumps, at a loss.

Erasing the slate, Ghost starts to write, pauses, and erases the small mark they had started. They think for a few moments, then write, “I don’t know” and stop again. Briefly clenching the slate in frustration, they write, “I don’t know how to be a friend.” They pause, thinking, then erase “friend” and replace it with “good friend.”

Quirrel starts, “You—” and stops when they start violently shaking their head. “…ok, I’ll wait.”

They think for a while, the slate resting in their lap as they idly run their hands up and down the sides. Picking it back up, they write, “I want to learn.”

Ghost stares blankly across the room for some time, then continues, “But I am” — they shudder deeply — “afraid. You share so freely, and I”—

“May I say something, please?” Quirrel interrupts quietly.

Nodding, they grasp the slate as if their life depends on it.

“You are right, I do share freely — with someone I trust. But that isn’t… I…” He sighs.

“A good friend is not someone who speaks freely, but someone who _listens_ , who cares, tries their best to help.” Quirrel turns a bit, facing them more directly. “You are _already_ good at being a friend. You were just never given a _chance_.”

Ghost has curled inward a little more, trembling.

“I think there are some things you very much _need_ to talk about, but doing so will never be a _requirement_.”

Quirrel reaches forward, makes sure they see his hand, and then gently grasps theirs where it is clenched on the slate.

“In one of the mind’s cruel tricks, it can often be so much harder for someone who is unused to sharing to bare their soul to the people they care for. It is so easy to believe that if someone you love learns the ugly secrets, it will drive them away — out of your life.

“But the truth is that friends are the people most likely to accept these truths and _stay_ , because they love who you are as a whole — even if they haven’t seen those dark secrets yet, they know they are a part of you, and always were. Unless you have an unrepentant dark and ugly past of inflicting torture and abuse, _you aren’t going to run me off_.”

Quirrel squeezes their hand again before letting go and quietly tells them, “Monsters of the mind are terrifying to live with, even more so when you are left alone with them. I am here, and I will help you fight them to the best of my ability. Knowing what those monsters are and where I might trip over them is _helpful_ , but _not required_.”

He takes a deep breath and suggests, “How about we take a break from all of this and get out for a while. Go explore somewhere, see if we can fill in your map a little?”

Ghost shudders, and after a pause manages to unclench their grip from the slate and signs, “Ok, wait go, I not upset you, stop—” and then throw their hands up in frustration.

They grab the slate again, erase it, and write, “I agree, but I need to tell you at least two things before we go, to keep you safe.”

Slowly, Quirrel says, “Keep me safe?”

Ghost nods, writes, “It will make more sense once I tell you.”

“If I need to know, then we can talk now. But only the bare minimum; _we need the break_ ,” he insists. Then, with a self-deprecating chuckle he adds, “Remind me of that when I get sidetracked, please? You have already seen that I don’t stay on topic very well.”

They nod again.

After thinking briefly, they start, “I get stuck in my mind sometimes. If it is bad, I don’t know where I am.” They stop, wait for him to read.

When he starts to say something, they hold their hand up to stop him, so he just nods.

Wiping the slate and then taking a deep breath, they write, “Normally, I am just very scared, or worked up, panicked and can’t calm down. I have to go somewhere else.”

Watching him without looking at his face, they wait. He nods, and they continue.

“I can usually tell when it is going to happen and get somewhere safe.”

Heart aching, he nods again.

“But not always.” Another shuddering sigh, “Most of the time, I just pace or lay down, but sometimes I am so panicked I start fighting things.”

Quirrel inhales sharply, stops himself, and nods again. They were right — he is beginning to see why they believe he needs to know this for his safety.

Ghost bows their head briefly, starts writing again. “I haven’t travelled with someone else for long before. I haven’t wanted to.” - - - they wait until Quirrel nods - - - “So I don’t know if I can tell a friend from an enemy. \- - - To my knowledge, I have never hurt anyone who hasn’t attacked me while I was confused. \- - - But I was rarely around other bugs for long. The chances were limited. Some of that was my choice.”

“I have destroyed some property, but usually I just end up throwing things about, trying to find a danger that is not there.” They start shaking, and their normally neat writing becomes hard to read, “Sometimes, it isn’t just feelings, I get stuck watching a memory again.”

“Ghost…” Quirrel whispers, devastated.

Tightly, they shake their head, and continue. “That is very rare, only when something has happened recently.”

Quietly, he asks, “After three hundred years, my dear friend, what qualifies as _recent_?”

A sharp huff, then “Five years.” Another huff, then “After 300 years I have learned some ways to cope. The Duran Mayfly Abbey let me stay for a while. I learned a lot from them.”

Ghost thinks for a while, then writes, “The Mayfly lifespan is about ten years; they teach that you should live, love, and move on. And if you can’t move on \- - - they teach you how to live through and keep going until you can move on. \- - - When you have so little time, you can’t always wait for things to get better.”

They wave their hands around a little, trying to capture their thoughts, “It was a contrast, what they believed, taught about the mind, and healing. \- - - Bugs who live longer try to rush healing, bemoan the ‘years lost to trauma’ as if healing doesn’t count as living. \- - - And yet the Mayflies would continue to encourage each other to take as long as was needed \- - - even if it took you a whole lifetime, because they believe that any day that could be made better \- - - is a day worth fighting to make better, even if the one after hurts again.”

Ghost takes a deep breath, and writes again, “It was very hard, after 64,480 days, to learn a different way to think about the panic, the flashbacks.”

A long pause, this time. While waiting, Quirrel suddenly connects the specificity of the number to the earlier conversation. “That is when you first counted how many days you had been tracking,” he says.

They nod. “And it brings us to the second thing I need you to know, before we go together.”

For the first time since they had started talking, they set the slate down and look up, directly at Quirrel. He isn’t sure what they see when they look at him, or if they decide they need to get a head start on offering comfort, but they stand up and take a step forward to rest their forehead on his. They bring their hands up to either side of his face, and just stand there. After a moment, he brings his hands up and cups their head.

“My dear…” he whispers, “you’re scaring me…”

A small nod, and they step back to sign, “I know.”

Turning around, they reach down to grab the slate. They turn back to him and hesitantly step forward a little, then point at his lap and sign, “Me ok?”

“ _ **Yes**_ ,” Quirrel says emphatically.

Ghost settles into his lap, and Quirrel tucks his head onto theirs, between their horns, as he watches them write.

“Technically, I did not start trying to change my way of thinking until 64,622 days had passed.”

Quirrel snorts, “Technically?” He feels them make a small laugh; he would never have noticed if they weren’t cuddled.

“The episodes had been growing worse, more frequent, for several years prior to that. I had started seeking \- - - knowledge, help, relief. I tried learning in Gr’dnst; they teach strength, to rise above and bury the past. \- - - Their teachings just made it worse, and then they went to war. I left, but at the edge of the kingdom \- - - I travelled through a small town.”

They stop writing, and he can feel them grow tense, trembling. “There was a bug in a position of power who thought she was untouchable \- - - and didn’t care what she had to do to stay that way, and so she did.”

Something old rustles in Quirrel’s memories, and he sits up a little, says, “Near Gr’dnst?”

Another nod.

“I’ve been through there, it’s an interesting—” he stops when they tap his leg with the chalk.

“Ahhh—sorry. Thank you.”

Ghost huffs, nods, and pats his leg.

“I had stopped there to rest, but as I left the next morning I was stopped by a small group of elders. \- - - They wanted to” — Ghost stops, then erases that and writes instead, “I had been traveling as a mercenary to hire, for lack of better words.” They stop.

Quirrel wonders why, then realizes they are likely waiting for a response.

He chuckles, then says, “I expect you were a very good mercenary, from what little I have seen here.”

Ghost twitches slightly, then writes, “That is not the reaction I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

A pause, then, “Disappointment.”

“I see.” Quirrel thinks for a moment, then says, “I have met many kinds of mercenaries in my wanderings. A large number of them lived under the shadow of that word, despite the fact that if they decided their employer or cause was worth working for you couldn’t pry them loose from a job until it was complete and done well.”

Quirrel brings his chin back down, resting it on their head, and briefly wraps his arms around them. “I’ve seen some of what you have done here — you help people impulsively. You don’t think about what you might gain prior to helping, you just _help_. Any rewards or thanks are secondary. And while you kill, you are efficient about it. You don’t enjoy it.” Quirrel shrugs. “Your sense of loyalty to those you care for is extraordinary. You don’t give up. When I have mentioned you to others, they smile and hope you are well. You may be a mercenary, but you are kind, generous, loving, and want to make the world a better place. Those actions speak far louder than a word.”

Ghost is absolutely still.

Quirrel finally asks, “Are you ok?”

They nod.

“Do you need a break?”

A small shake of their head.

They finally move, pick up the slate. Hesitate, then write, “Are you warm enough? Should we get a blanket?”

“I am fine at the moment, but it would probably be a good idea nonetheless.”

Ghost nods, and Quirrel sits back up so they can stand. They walk over to the mound of bedding and dig out the blanket Quirrel had used that first night. They plop it on the floor, and start wandering around it, shoving it this way and that, until Quirrel realizes they are attempting to fold it.

He asks, “Do you want some help?”

They stop, stare at the haphazard mess for a moment, then nod.

Standing up, he grabs the blanket, quickly folds it a few times, and carries it back to where they had been talking. Sitting down, he folds it into his lap and up against his belly and chest.

Ghost had followed him back — grabbing the slate again — and now settles into the blanket, making sure to pull it up to cover the back of their head some.

Resettled, they sigh, and start again. “I’ve realized the details are unimportant, just that I agreed to a job and was ambushed.” Ghost tenses again, forces themself to relax, and takes a deep breath. “I was killed.”

Quirrel freezes for a long while, in shock. Ghost is just sitting there, hands on the edges of the slate, head bowed.

He doesn’t know what to make of it. What they just told him is impossible. He knows functional immortality exists, but once someone has been killed, they _stay_ that way. He is confused.

Maybe _they_ are confused?

“Ahhh… what?”

Ghost makes a small huff, then they lean back and briefly press their head into his chest.

They erase the slate, and write, “I died.”

As if that would help him make sense of it.

“Uh… hmmm.”

“I got better, if that helps.”

“No! It does _not!!_ What do you _mean_ , you _**died**!?_” he exclaims.

Ghost sighs. “I mean I died. I was killed. My shell was split open and torn apart. I”—

Quirrel cries out, “ _ **STOP**!!_ I can’t…” He grabs the sides of his head. “No! Maybe you were confused?”

“No. I was not confused.”

“…I don’t _understand_ , I can’t… that’s not _possible_ , it’s…” he stumbles to a stop, dropping his hands.

Ghost erases the slate, pauses; then continues, “I don’t understand either. But I was dead for a week.”

Quirrel makes a small noise. They stop for a moment, put a hand on his leg and rub it gently.

“When I came back, I was leagues away from where I had died. I was” Ghost pauses to think, then erases and continues, “I was weakened, I couldn’t heal well, and my shade was still where I had been killed.”

“I don’t _understand_ ,” Quirrel whispers. “I don’t understand _any_ of this; your shade?”

Ghost bows their head again before writing, “I know. I don’t understand it either.” They run their hands up and down the sides of the slate for a few moments. “Do you understand why I needed to tell you this, to keep you safe?”

Shakily he responds, “Not really.”

Ghost reaches out again, rests their hand on his arm for a while.

“When things go bad, I need you to leave me behind. You need to let me die.”

Quirrel chokes out, “ _No_ , what if it doesn’t happen again, what if you are… are just _dead_ the next time it happens? No, I can’t do that, I _can’t_.”

“I have died many times now. I come back. You need to be able to walk away and let that happen.” Pausing, they take a deep breath and write, “You could wait at a bench, the first time I know I am going to face something that will take practice.”

“Take _**practice**!?_” he yelps.

They shrug, “I don’t know what else to call it.”

“…dying. You call it _dying_ ,” he growls.

“If you wait at the bench, you won’t see it happen. I think I will just suddenly be there.”

“You _think_ you just pop back??” They start writing again, but Quirrelf can’t stop, keeps shouting. “And I am just supposed to _sit there_ , knowing you have gone off to _get yourself killed_ while I just twiddle my thumbs!?”

“It is odd, for some reason I cannot watch myself from the outside and see what it looks like when I show up.”

Quirrel inhales to speak, but Ghost crawls out of his lap and stands up, setting the slate aside as they turn around. Reaching forward with their hand, they gently touch the edge of his face behind his mask, brushing away some of the tears. They rest it against his cheek for a few moments while they think.

“Please, know you unsure. Know you upset. Know you sad,” they sign.

“I’m not strong enough,” he whispers.

“You yes. Please, you wait, I come. Ok you sad, ok you unsure. You wait, I come, you stop unsure, you know.”

“Ghost, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being scared that you won’t come back the next time. How do you _know_ it will always work?”

“I know. Not stop come. I **know**.”

“I—”

Ghost steps in, presses their forehead firmly against his, placing their hands on the sides of his face a moment later.

Quirrel starts sobbing.

Ghost begins to move their hands, lightly stroking the sides of his face. He clutches the back of their head with his hands, pressing them against his mask, holding on hard.

They stand there a long time, comforting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only was Quirrel lacking painkillers, but can you imagine how much more a migraine would suck if you _can’t close your eyes_?
> 
> Do I think Quirrel has ADHD? Why yes, yes I do.
> 
> Is Ghost going to be a sugar fiend? Why yes, yes they are.


	6. I Know It’s Our Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost and Quirrel finally make it out into the world.
> 
> It goes a bit better than they expected, but not by very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hell of a time lopping the previous chapter down. There is so much stuff that will (hopefully) show up later, but gods I was starting to wonder if I should have sub-titled the work “Quirrel and Ghost in the Pleasure House” which would have turned this into a whole-ass different kind of fanfic.
> 
> Internal dialog about _Body Dysphoria_ , Ghost fusses about Quirrel’s prior _Suicidal Ideation_. A _Panic Attack_ if you squint.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Once again, many thanks to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for their proofread/beta check!  
>   
> 

#### Ghost

* * *

It took a couple of hours and a bit more arguing before Quirrel calmed down to the point where Ghost felt he would be able to focus on the environment and keep himself safe. The biggest challenge had been convincing him that they weren’t going to throw themself at the first possible challenge just to show him how dying worked for them.

They haven’t had the heart to explain that just because they come back doesn’t mean dying is painless. It isn’t — being torn apart is _excruciating_. They really do try and avoid it as much as possible.

Ghost is also busy having a low-key crisis of their own. They know that they have been wound up by everything that has happened this morning and are trying to keep that in mind.

The problem is that Quirrel responds so dramatically to being touched. Once they were able to see past their fear, alert for something beyond rejection of their touch — as well as his comment when discussing his memory of the time with Monomon — it became blatantly obvious that it grounds him, keeps him _here_ , not lost in his head. But he is so damn respectful of their boundaries that they are positive he would just fucking walk into the darkest pits of his mind before he would do something so drastically out of line as _ask for a hug_.

It is _infuriating_.

When it comes to Ghost’s body, so far the only thing that appears to be an actual issue for Quirrel is how damnably cold they are. Nothing else. And rather than just avoiding being close, he has _actively sought a solution_. Multiple times.

Granted, at this point he has only touched their cloak, hands, head, and arms. Their head is fairly normal for a bug’s shell and they are fairly sure he thinks their cloak is fabric — most bugs do. But their hands are only moderately smoother and harder than the rest of their body, and their arms are definitely the same as the rest of them. However, Quirrel doesn’t discriminate — as far as they can tell, the only reason he will choose to grab and/or hold their hands instead of their arms is due to positioning or the natural tendency to grab a hand instead of an arm. If they were trying to be honest with themself, they would have to admit he seems to prefer their _arms_ to their hands, and they have no idea _why_.

As a result, they have been struggling to remember and make a concerted effort to reach out and touch, let him touch them. It is _hard_. But it makes him so much _happier_. And their response to his touch is…

It seems that they had managed to fool themself into believing they didn’t like being touched, that it wasn’t something they needed or wanted. Because now? It is scaring the shit out of them, how much they are responding to it. Starting to crave it. What if it isn’t bothering him now because he is so hurt, needing comfort so badly that he hasn’t really noticed? And later — when he gets better — what if he does notice? And _stops_? They know it is already too late for it to not hurt badly. Hell, it had turned out it was too late before they had even reached out the _first_ time. It would just be infinitely worse now.

Lacking a solution to the problem, and too scared to ask Quirrel just yet, they decide to shove it off and pretend it doesn’t exist.

* * *

Ghost is once again in Quirrel’s blanket-covered lap, and they are going over Ghost’s map, trying to decide where a relatively benign area to travel would be — or at least as benign as Hallownest can provide.

Ghost has pretty much explored the Fungal Wastes, Greenpath, Crystal Peak, and Fog Canyon, although now that they are scouring the map rather than just looking it over, they notice a few side paths here and there that they haven’t gone through. Some of those may be viable options — except the ones in Fog Canyon. They plan on leaving the choice to go back there to Quirrel.

The City of Tears and the Waterways below it have more gaps, or at least more open areas. Ghost doesn’t know if Quirrel is aware that there can be hidden areas, only accessible through property damage. Likely not — indiscriminate violence doesn’t seem to be his style.

Deepnest is still a vast empty blank — Ghost still hasn’t gone past the small corner just beyond the Mantis Village. They had reached that point before bothering to get the lumafly lantern from Sly, and they haven’t gone back since.

Quirrel is leaning forward some, his head once again resting on theirs, his left hand skimming the map. He touches Lurien’s marker, then moves his hand to where Monomon’s would have been. It rests there briefly, and they feel a miniscule sigh as he briefly leans into them a little closer. He breaths in and then moves it over to Herrah’s marker.

“You have certainly covered a lot of ground since you last showed me this,” he says quietly.

They nod; it has been a while since they found him in the Crystal Peak.

Tapping the empty western area, he asks, “You have something against Deepnest?”

Their whole body shudders and they cover their eyes.

Quirrel laughs; “I believe most bugs not from Deepnest have an extremely similar reaction.”

Good, that means most bugs have a base level of sanity. They approve.

“Do you have any particular preferences?” he asks.

Ghost shrugs, then shakes their head. Other than ‘not Deepnest’ and ‘not Fog Canyon’, they don’t.

“In that case, as much as I loathe the thought, may I suggest we head back to the Archives,” he says.

They jerk back a little, going tense. So much for their mental ‘not’ list. They start reaching for the slate to ask what the fuck he is thinking, when he answers the unasked question.

“My travel gear is there, I didn’t take it when I left,” he says. “Among several other useful things, it has some painkillers. If migraines are suddenly going to be a part of my new life, I _need_ those.

“I… _We_ will also need to find a way to get me more — I don’t have a large supply. Even if we manage to scavenge some, I don’t know how efficacious they will be after all this time. I do know some things that can be made from certain plants, but I don’t know if those grow here, whether in Greenpath or the Queen’s Gardens.”

Gods, they hadn’t even thought of that.

They know about painkillers in an abstract sense, but they haven’t found any that worked particularly well for them unless they take them in absurdly huge quantities. Besides, barring the headaches that result from their panic episodes, they don’t usually end up with pain that _lasts_. Things hurt like hell when they are injured, but only for a few seconds.

Dying was the only exception; that last hit always seemed to linger as time stretched out while their body tore itself apart. And until they could eat something, they continued to have a deep ache after popping back — even after fetching their shade. But since they hadn’t really had much experience with that process until recently, they hadn’t explored options for _mitigating_ the pain.

They sigh, accepting the inevitable.

* * *

There isn’t much planning that needs to happen once they have decided where to go. Ghost doesn’t have to worry about how much they carry, and Quirrel doesn’t currently have much _to_ carry. Ghost does ask him how much food he thinks they should bring in case foraging doesn’t work out, but he doesn’t seem to think it will be an issue. They take his word for it; storing stuff in their body works well for the most part, but when they store items with liquid for very long those tend to end up… contaminated with what they presume is Void. While it doesn’t bother them in the practical sense — although it does make food taste odd — they have no clue whether Void-tainted food would harm Quirrel, and have absolutely no desire to test the idea.

The current plan is to take the stagway over to Queen’s Station and travel up to the Archives from there. Quirrel is to let Ghost know if the memories change much as they travel, so that there is a last known place of relative safety.

There is no real plan once they reach the Archives. There is no way to plan for what neither of them know.

As they had talked about the lack of ability to plan, Quirrel had told them that once he had settled in while they ran their little errand yesterday, the sensation of little thoughts bubbling through his brain — he used the phrase ‘brain effervescence,’ which sounds awful but it made him giggle so whatever — was tolerable, which just left him with the devastating depression, emotional whiplash, and migraines to deal with.

The fact that he considers those to be a much smaller problem than the intensity of the ‘brain effervescence’ while he was at the Archives scares Ghost badly. Emotionally, Quirrel has been all over the fucking map the last two days. Yet this is somehow far better than what had been happening during the previous week? In the deepest corner of their mind, they are surprised he made it that long.

They do have an emergency plan, of sorts: Ghost is to haul Quirrel the hell out of the Archives by whatever means is necessary and get him to the last place things had been stable.

Quirrel had been worried that they wouldn’t be able to move him if he collapsed, which made them snort. The big issue was going to be his size and getting ahold of something to haul him about, _not_ his weight. He’d been dubious until they told him to lie down and then dragged him around a little bit with no issue.

Ghost had been worried that if they had to drag him around on his carapace for very far that it would scrape open. While Quirrel can roll up into a ball, he told them that if he goes unconscious, he’ll unroll. The current compromise is for him to roll up if he becomes overwhelmed — apparently that part will be easy, he has to fight instinct in order to stay _unrolled_ when stressed — and Ghost will shove him until either he ends up unconscious or he can handle stumbling along while being guided.

Ghost had grabbed some ratty old towels to pile up under him just in case they end up needing to drag his round ass around. Apparently Quirrel molts every year or so, meaning that even if he ends up with a hole from the dragging, it can be patched until his next molt. Ghost would still rather not put a hole in his carapace.

With those items sorted out, the plan for after — if things went relatively well at the Archives and Quirrel wasn’t having issues with Fog Canyon in general — was to explore a couple of the side paths that Ghost hadn’t gone down. Quirrel had mentioned the Queen’s Gardens, and Ghost had assumed they were something at the White Palace until Quirrel had corrected them. It turns out that the empty expanse in the west isn’t just Deepnest, and both of the untraveled paths on Ghost’s Fog Canyon map led west.

* * *

The trip from the Pleasure House to King’s Station _should_ have been uneventful. It turns out that travelling with Quirrel is… vastly different from how they are used to travelling. They just go places; Quirrel _experiences_ places.

He hadn’t been to this side of the City of Tears when he had come through. Considering what Ghost had ended up needing to do to get here themself, it wasn’t much of a surprise once they thought about it. He also doesn’t remember much at the moment, which means he wants to crawl around _everywhere_ and _everything_. Not because he is trying to trip any memories, but because he is fucking _curious_. They can’t decide whether to be frustrated at the pace or elated that he is alert, engaged, and seemingly content. They would feel more guilty about the frustration if it hadn’t taken _three fucking hours_ to get from the Pleasure House to the gods-be-damned station platform the Last Stag ran from.

He then spent another hour chatting up Enric — learning a bug’s name is a lot easier when you can _ask_ — before they finally piled on and headed to Queen’s Station. Quirrel hadn’t stopped talking to Enric the whole way.

Once at the station, they climbed to the upper platforms, and Ghost finally realized what might be up. They felt bad about not thinking of it sooner, but better here than later.

Stopping, they grab Quirrel’s hand; he stops and looks down at them.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

They sign, “Unsure,” and then sit down, patting the ground in front of them in a request for him to sit.

Quirrel hesitates, and then slowly sits cross-legged in front of them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you up so much—”

“No, stop! Not upset you wait. Happy you come, please stop upset,” Ghost signs.

Quirrel doesn’t look convinced, but nods.

They sigh — they are pretty damn sure their impatience showed at times, and feel bad about it — and sign again, “Not upset wait you,” then hold their hand out. They still worry he won’t take it.

He does, without hesitation.

It still confuses and surprises them, that lack of hesitation, and they momentarily forget why they had reached out as his hand curls around theirs.

Oh yeah; they are worried about him and want to make sure they have him here — grounded in the present, with them — before interrogating him. Still, no reason they can’t indulge in a little of their own curiosity at this point, right?

Pulling his hand closer, almost into their lap, they investigate it. For all that they’ve ended up holding or being held by his hands the last few days, they haven’t actually _looked_ at them. Not that they have a point of comparison other than their own hands, but they are curious.

Quirrel’s hands and limbs are a deep blue-grey that looks black from a distance, and matte rather than glossy. Three fingers and a thumb, same as they have. They trace one of his fingers with the tips of theirs; they are long and thin, with chitin covering the sections between his joints. Pressing the back of one finger, they gently flex it, watching how the joints hinge.

Turning his hand palm-up and bringing their other hand under it, they rest the back of his hand in their palm and then feel his clawtips — they are blunted, and they idly wonder if they also shed when he molts, or just his main shell. If they shed, are the fresh ones sharp or is blunted the normal? If they are sharp, does he blunt them, or is it just use that wears them down?

Placing their hand flat on his palm, they line their wrist up at the base of his fingers. They know they are small but lining up their hands this way, the ends of their fingers don’t even reach the base of his palm. Huffing a small laugh, they slide their hand to the edge of his by his thumb, gently rubbing his palm with their thumb, feeling the texture, marveling at the differences.

Quirrel’s breath catches, and he curls his fingers around their hand. They look up to find him watching them intently.

Bringing their other hand over the top of his fingers, they give his hand a brief squeeze before pulling back and signing, “Unsure you ok. Stop here, wait please, not go I know you ok.”

He is giving them an odd, penetrating look, his hand still in front of them where they had let it go.

Puzzled — and starting to become a little worried — Ghost continues, “Please,” —they gesture by their mouth— “me you,” and then they lean forward to point at his head. Sitting back, they look down and see his hand is still in front of them, so they take it again and then look back up at him.

“I think…” he says slowly, starts again. “I think that I just realized something.”

Now they are _very_ confused, and their question still hasn’t been answered. They tilt their head a little, hoping that he gets the message without them needing to stumble through signing again or digging out the slate.

Quirrel inhales deeply and says, “I just want to make sure I understand, that I am not confused. You said that you aren’t sure that I am doing ok. You want us to stop here and talk, so I can tell you what I am thinking, how I am doing. That you aren’t willing to go on until you are comfortable that I am as ok as I can be for now.”

Ghost nods.

“And my hand?” he asks.

Still confused and now hurt, they look at his hand and slowly let go.

“Ghost, _**no**_ , that isn’t what I meant!” he exclaims, turning his hand and capturing theirs, bringing his other over as well.

He pauses, making sure they aren’t pulling back, and then quietly says, “I forgot for a moment. You haven’t ever had the chance to look at another bug’s hands up close, have you?”

They shake their head.

“It’s alright, I understand.” He chuckles, sounding a little shaky. “You just caught me off-guard.”

At this point, they are damn sure that isn’t all of it; he was way too intent, the signs they had available and used had actually been fairly clear for what they wanted to say, and he had nailed it first try. So they tilt their head the other way, hoping he will explain something, because they are confused — still — and a bit scared.

Quirrel must pick up on at least some of their confusion and fear, and sighs.

“If I promise that I will explain my reaction at a better time and place — perhaps after I make it most of a day without breaking down in tears — can you trust me to do that?” he asks quietly.

They just stare, lost.

He gently squeezes their hands. “It isn’t anything bad or awful, just… not something either of us are currently emotionally equipped to handle.” Making a small smile, he continues, “I haven’t tried to avoid telling you anything, and I don’t intend to start. I’m just asking for this to be _later_. Please?”

Slowly, Ghost nods. He hasn’t, and they trust him. Pulling one hand free, they sign, “Ok,” and then put it back on top of his.

“Thank you.” He leans forward and rests his forehead on theirs. After a few moments, he takes a deep breath and sits back up.

“To answer the questions you asked, I suspect I am highly distractable due to nerves, which I gather you figured out.”

Ghost nods again, then shrugs.

Quirrel chuckles and continues. “Overall, I haven’t noted a markable change in how I feel — despite the recent flight of fancy — or how I perceive things are percolating back into my head. I believe we can use this spot as a safe place if things change once we enter Fog Canyon. I am still terrified to enter the Archives again, so I don’t think I have lost touch with how this might go.”

He moves his hands a bit, capturing both of theirs between his. “But I have my dear friend with me, and they are loyal, loving, stubborn, and I know they will do everything they can to bring me back if it goes poorly, because have I mentioned how stubborn they are?”

Ghost huffs a laugh, gently pulls their hands back, and signs, “No, you not.”

Quirrel snorts. “Well, they are one of the most stubborn people I know.”

* * *

Once they are fully within Fog Canyon, Ghost stops them again.

“You ok? Go ok?” they ask Quirrel.

Quirrel shudders, says “Still nervous, but nothing has changed overall. I’ll let you know if that changes, but I will definitely make a check-in before we enter the Archives.”

Nodding firmly, Ghost pats his hand and gestures for him to take the lead.

Chuckling, he asks “Are you sure you want me to lead? It might take us two days to get there.”

Ghost huffs, signs, “You ok. You stop, I,” and Ghost pokes him very firmly in the leg — eliciting a “Hey!” — and continues, “you, you stop wait, you go. Yes?”

They step back a little, cross their arms, then look up at him expectantly.

Quirrel finally laughs and relaxes a bit.

“That sounds like an excellent plan. It might even work.”

Smiling, he takes the lead, and they head off again.

* * *

Now standing in front of the Archives, Quirrel seems stuck. He had checked in and it sounded like things really hadn’t changed much. That had led to him speculating that whatever was so different about how the memories were coming back before he fled the Archives was triggered by being _within_ the Archives.

He hasn’t said anything for a couple of minutes now, just staring at the entrance in dread.

Ghost finally steps in front of him, and he looks down.

He looks absolutely terrified.

“You upset, me here. You I,” and Ghost briefly clasps his hand, and then drops it to continue, “come yes ok?”

“You are asking if I want you to hold my hand for this?”

They nod.

Quirrel wraps his arms around his shoulders and shivers hard.

Still clinging to himself, he asks, “Are we sure going in is a good idea?”

Ghost suspects Quirrel needs a hug and is refusing to ask. They shake their head, then sign, “You me,” and then wrap their arms around themself, and point back at Quirrel.

Quirrel chokes out a high, strained laugh, then asks, “You don’t think this is a good idea, and want to give me a hug?”

What the fuck is with him suddenly asking if he understands what they’ve been saying? The two of them had managed to settle into a fairly good understanding, and now this?

Maybe it’s just nerves?

Ghost nods.

That painful laugh again, and he says, “Did you know you were remarkably close to getting the sign for hug correct? It’s one of the intuitive ones, you just cross your arms in front of yourself like this,” and he demonstrates before going back to staring at the doorway in terror.

They stare at him, now extremely worried.

They smack his leg.

Startled, he yelps and looks down at them.

Ghost points at the ground, then signs, “Yes I hug you. Come.”

Quirrel looks like he’s going to say something, but then just collapses to the ground and wraps them in his arms.

He is shaking violently.

They wrap their arms around his neck, start patting his back.

“Just in case it isn’t clear, I am _terrified_ ,” he whispers.

Ghost just nods.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, he asks, “Are you sure you’re ok with holding my hand?”

Ghost sighs. They nod and give him a firm squeeze.

Quirrel squeezes them back, hard. He starts to pull away before suddenly grabbing the back of their head, then ducking back and pressing his face to their forehead.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he whispers.

Before they can respond, he lets go and springs up, holding his hand out.

Grabbing it firmly, they start forward, tugging him along.

* * *

Quirrel cries out as they cross the threshold, and his grip on their hand is suddenly hard as steel.

After taking a few more steps in, Ghost stops and steps in front of him, looking up. Waiting.

“It’s back, they are all over again. Everywhere. This is… it’s _awful_.”

He whimpers for a few moments, then drops to his knees in front of them.

“I’m sorry, I need… can I…” and he trails off.

Ghost takes a step forward, and their movement brings his attention back.

“I’m very sorry, I need… may I pick you up and carry you? I know it bothers you, and if you’d—”

Ghost has stepped directly in front of him as he has babbled away, apparently unable to stop. They let go of his hand to grab his shoulders and give him a firm shake.

He stops babbling with a gasp, they give him one more firm shake, and step back a little to sign, “ **Yes.** ”

Quirrel makes a choked sob and grabs them, scooping them up and then attempts to bury his face into their shoulder. When that fails, he shoves it into the side of their head instead.

Standing up, he says, “Let’s get this the fuck over with.”

* * *

Mercifully, it doesn’t take that long once he’s moving. Trembling the whole time and breathing in deep heaves, he quickly carries them through the Archives, up a few floors and down a wing of what appear to be living quarters. Entering one of the rooms, he sets them down and stumbles about, quickly rolling up a sleeping bag and bundling it into a backpack. He then starts throwing items into a small hip pack.

Ghost looks around the room and picks up any small items they see, stuffing them into themself. Quirrel seems to have gotten stuck again when he sat down after picking up a small book he had fumbled and dropped, so they start grabbing anything and everything that looks like it can be gathered and stow it. Once the room is cleared of whatever seems removable, they walk around in front of him and grab his shoulder.

He jolts, and looks at them. Ghost isn’t entirely sure that he is actually seeing them, so they grab his other shoulder and press their forehead against his and squeeze his shoulders.

Quirrel moans and grabs their shoulders briefly. Sitting back, he starts to reach out to grab the rest of his belongings, discovers everything is missing. Appearing a little more present, he looks around the room in shock.

“Where did it all go?”

Tapping his shoulder to get his attention, they point at themself and pat their chest.

“Gods. _All of it_??”

Ghost snorts, then nods.

“Stars above. That is amazing. You do realize that most of that stuff was already here when I got back, right?”

Ghost shakes their head, then shrugs. They honestly have no clue how much stuff bugs normally pack around, not having traveled with someone before. They can pack as much as they want, so long as the item is small enough they can get it stored.

“…right.”

Quirrel shakes his head, closes up the backpack and the hip pack, strapping them both on.

Picking them up again, he looks around the room one last time, says, “Let’s blow this joint,” and strides out of the room.

* * *

He collapses three steps out of the Archives, dropping them and rolling up into a ball, sobbing.

* * *

Ghost sits by him for a long while, gently rubbing his back. He has curled up tight enough that they can’t squeeze in for a hug, and they are worried that if they try and force the issue, they might hurt him. They had tried patting the front where he was closed up, but he had just rolled tighter.

They don’t know much about pillbugs, but this is obviously a protective response. They suspect that any perceived threat is just going to keep re-triggering the reaction until Quirrel is aware enough to do something about it.

Ghost waits.

* * *

Ghost guesses it to be an hour before Quirrel starts to relax. Not wanting to startle him, they stay where they are and continue to rub his back.

“Ghost… well. I was going to ask if that was you, but it would be a silly question.”

Unrolling the rest of the way, he turns as if to lay on his back but is stopped by his backpack. Shuddering, he crosses his arms over his eyes.

“Let’s avoid going back in there for a while.”

Ghost pats his back, then stands up and walks around in front of him and sits back down.

“Yes.”

Sighing, Quirrel pushes himself back into a sitting position and looks blearily around.

“I think I am done for today. Do you think we should head for one of the paths we had marked for exploration and rest there, or should we head back to Queen’s Station?” he asks.

They glare at him, then hold up two fingers.

He gives them a wan smile and apologizes, “Forgive me, please.”

Nodding, Ghost stands up.

With a weary groan, Quirrel follows suit, and together they plod away from the Archives and out of Fog Canyon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure I will let you all know this, because it may help with understanding what Quirrel is going through — even if Ghost and Quirrel can’t figure it out. Because I work with computers, it is probably only natural that I decided to handle this in a computer-like fashion.
> 
> Quirrel’s memories are returning similar to how BitTorrent handles a file. He is getting what amounts to bytes of data that he perceives as bubbles or flakes. If there are enough related bubbles of information to be semi-coherent, they connect and he can then pull the information. So long as the number of bubbles connecting at a time remains small, he won’t really notice it. This will be true even when the connected bubbles start interconnecting as well. If he just knows information from his life in Hallownest, this background process is most likely what has happened.
> 
> The problems come when clusters of bubbles or bubble groups cascade off of each other, making a very large number of connections all at once. This is similar to what happens when your computer suddenly needs to do a lot of work, and you hear all the fans kick on like it is getting ready for liftoff. Poor Quirrel doesn’t have cooling fans.
> 
> The other part is basically download speed. Throughout Hallownest, he is basically on standard home internet, running 10Mbit/s at most. His brain can handle this almost in the background, and as he adjusts, he will likely cease to notice it happening at all. This falls under the same category as growing used to a smell or bright lighting. Uncomfortable at first, but adaptable.
> 
> Returning to the Archives is akin to hooking his brain up to Thunderbolt 3 on a short cable: the information transfer is _at least_ 4,000x faster. His brain can’t do much more than deal with the data influx. And Ghost was right — a brain cannot handle this kind of data influx for very long.


	7. I’m Not Afraid to Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost and Quirrel poke about Fog Canyon some after Quirrel recovers from his trip into the Archives.
> 
> They both learn they have a lot to learn about each other (although mostly about Ghost).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many _many_ thanks to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for the beta read, which included a strongly worded disagreement with one of my choices, accompanied by a bullet point list taken from all the previous chapters and supporting documentation. Opinions were had, they were right, and I am bitter about being wrong but extremely grateful that it was caught and dealt with; this is a much better chapter for it.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This chapter deals with _Panic Attacks_ , and a couple of paragraphs are spent in a frank discussion of Ghost’s _Body Dysphoria_.

#### Ghost

* * *

Quirrel is barely on his feet when they finally made it back to the Queen’s Station; he hasn’t said a thing since they left the front of the Archives. They both drop down to the top northwest platform, and then Quirrel stands there, swaying, while Ghost looks around a little. Looking into the alcove and finding nothing of interest, they decide it should be fine to sleep in.

Walking back out to the edge where Quirrel is doing his best impression of a cattail in a breeze, they gently touch his hand. When he doesn’t respond, they grasp his fingers and tug a little bit. He jolts, gasping like they just woke him up.

He looks down at them, unfocused.

Sighing, they pull on his hand until he starts walking, leading him into the back of the nook, then point at the ground.

He stares for a moment, then stumbles into the corner and sits. Groaning, he leans forward and shoves his hands under his mask, rubbing his face.

Shuddering deeply, he drops his hands and shrugs out of the backpack, pushing it aside, and leans back against the wall. He turns his head and wearily looks at them. They are beginning to understand, just a little, why he had been so done. Their heart aches for him.

“Ghost…” he whispers.

They step over and stand in front of him. He holds a hand out; it is trembling badly. They take it, and he grips their hand hard.

“I’m so _tired_ , my friend,” he says.

Ghost nods. They know it will be a little garbled, one-handed, but sign anyhow, “I know. I here. Not go. I here you. Ok?”

Quirrel covers his face with his other hand, then nods and grips their hand harder. “ _Ghost_ …” Finally, with a deep shudder, he pulls them into his arms and buries his face into the side of their head.

* * *

When Ghost wakes up, Quirrel is still sleeping. They leave him that way, and dig out their personal journal to draw, and think.

* * *

When Quirrel wakes up, he groans quietly. Ghost sets aside their journal and moves over next to him, places their hand on his arm. Quirrel shifts and looks at them groggily, then gives them a tiny smile and shifts the arm they are touching until it is laying by their side, his hand pressing into the side of their leg through their cloak.

“Good what we shall pretend is morning,” he says.

They pat his arm, sign, “Yes, happy you.”

His smile relaxes into something more natural, and he turns his hand to lightly brush their back with his fingers.

Sitting up, he looks around at the little alcove and then nods.

“We did make it back to Queen’s Station,” he says. “I thought so, but I wasn’t completely sure last night.”

They figure it’s fairly obvious, but nod anyhow.

“You ok? You unsure? You sad?” they sign.

“How do I feel?”

Ghost nods again.

He sighs, “Worn out, mostly. Emotionally exhausted.”

Looking at them more directly and smiling, he adds “I’m happy to see you.”

“Me happy you.”

Quirrel brings his hand up and briefly touches the side of their face, then asks, “Are you interested in learning a few more signs while I eat breakfast?”

Nodding enthusiastically, Ghost sits down and the two of them begin the day.

* * *

After breakfast and the lesson, Ghost digs the map back out and verifies where they are going before taking off.

The first branch to the west out of Fog Canyon ends up being a dead end as far as Quirrel is concerned, and it prods Ghost’s memory as to why they hadn’t continued previously. The way is blocked by acid — which Quirrel can’t swim through.

There is a bit of confusion when Ghost jumps into the acid. They look up and see Quirrel shouting in panic as he kneels on the ledge; he is trying to reach them. They climb back up and he seizes them by their arms, continuing to shout. It turns out he hadn’t realized they had been into and out of the acid while fighting Uumuu, and so their impromptu swim has nearly given him a heart attack.

Once that is sorted out, Ghost heads back down and through. They look around for a while before deciding that it doesn’t loop back around anytime soon, so they return to where Quirrel is. Pulling out their map, they put down a red marker to indicate it as untraversable for now, and they hike up to the second westward branch.

It is also filled with acid, plus pissed off zappy lumafly groups, but between the ledges and Quirrel’s rather extraordinary jumping and dashing abilities, it is traversable for him.

Ghost pulls out the slate when they reach other side. They decide that they will finish checking this branch out, and then go back to the Mantis Village to see if they can get Quirrel a Mantis Claw — the chest had contained several others when Ghost had swiped the one they are currently using.

Ghost shows him the Crystal Heart and tells him what it does and where they had found it. Quirrel is absolutely fascinated by it, and after a little bit of fiddling around the two of them figure out how he can use it.

Sitting back and watching Quirrel shoot from one end of the area to the other, cackling maniacally as he goes, Ghost decides that they will need to go back to Crystal Peak and scour the place from top to bottom to see if there is another functional version somewhere. Quirrel’s glee aside, there are places where it is the only way to get where they need to go. Even if that weren’t true, they would absolutely do it just for his apparent thrill and need for speed. They have never seen him so excited about something, even before everything that has happened, and it fills them with a warm happiness.

Ghost has an idea — they have no idea whether or not the Crystal Heart has a weight limit, but they had found it in a huge-ass mining golem. Would it be possible for them to somehow haul Quirrel along while they used it? Ghost knows they don’t weigh much, and it seems to carry Quirrel without any issues, so it is highly likely the answer is yes.

Flagging him down as he zips by again, they figure out that while it is extremely awkward to nigh on impossible for Ghost to get a decent grip on Quirrel and still manage to use it, Quirrel has absolutely no problems when Ghost sits atop his backpack and rides along while he uses it. There is a distressing tendency for Ghost to go shooting off over his head when Quirrel stops, but overall it works far better than Ghost had expected.

That just leaves trying to figure out if there is a way to get Quirrel some way to swim through the acid. Ghost shows him Isma’s Tear, explaining where they had picked it up. They are fairly sure that they will need a second Crystal Heart for both of them to get into Isma’s Grove — the passage to get there is narrow enough that Ghost doesn’t think they will fit while perched atop Quirrel, even if he does dump his backpack. It is going to be a narrow fit for him regardless; as it is, he is going to need to figure out how to keep his legs up more while he flies. Considering where her grove is, there will be time to practice.

* * *

Ghost leaves the Crystal Heart in Quirrel’s possession for now — so long as they are traveling together, it doesn’t particularly matter if he keeps it in his hip pack until it is needed.

When they reach the end of the passage, it drops down into a pit with a couple of ledges, and just past the pit it ends at a small foliage-covered hut. There is a small waterfall splashing into a little acid pond that drains off somewhere that can’t be seen from where they stand.

Ghost points down into the pit, then over to the hut.

Quirrel nods, and then jumps down to one of the ledges in the middle before continuing on below. Ghost leaps off the edge and lands at the bottom, startling Quirrel.

He looks back up at how far the jump is, then back at Ghost. “I haven’t met many bugs who can jump the way I can, or land after falling as far. I believe I had to train for quite a while, and I need to use soul for the longer jumps or falls. If I do use soul, I can just barely clear that; can you make it back up the same way?”

They shake their head, sign, “I need” —they point at the ledges— “go up.”

“Hmmm.” He looks back up at the top of the pit, then asks, “How far can you fall before it injures you?”

Ghost shrugs. “Unsure. I not know down stop.”

Quirrel stares at them, puzzled.

“I’m sorry, I am not sure I understand, because if you are saying what I think you said, you have never been injured by falling.”

They nod, “Yes, you understand.”

Now the stare is shocked. “ _What??_ ”

Ghost shrugs again. They don’t have a satisfactory answer; they always figured it was because they don’t weigh all that much, and since their cloak flutters a lot as they fall, they don’t end up falling fast enough to cause injury — but they have never really deeply considered it. They either land soft or they land hard and are stunned for a few moments.

They also haven’t tried to determine if there is a limit. The idea of falling a long way terrifies them, and if they spend much time looking down into a dark jump, it almost always ends in a panic attack. They’ve learned to just leap without thinking when it is dark.

But if Quirrel presses, they have absolutely no clue why it doesn’t hurt.

Shaking his head, Quirrel responds with a laugh, “Dear gods. I have so many questions, my friend. But it is neither the time nor polite, so I shall try to contain myself.” He reaches out, hesitates a moment, and then puts his hand on the back of their head.

Confused, they look up at him. Why did he hesitate?

Quietly, he asks, “I haven’t actually ever checked in with you, my friend.” He starts gently rubbing the top of their head with his thumb. “You have come to accept a casual touch far more quickly than I expected, hoped. I want to make sure I’m not pushing you too fast, or going too far.”

They nod slowly, and Quirrel drops his hand as Ghost looks around the pit to see if there would be a good place to sit and talk for a little bit. What he said mitigates a lot of their worry about whether he would withdraw his touch in the future, but doesn’t actually stop it from happening. They might as well get the conversation over with now, since they know their end of it will suck.

As they look around for a spot to sit, they see a wall of flowing blackness and stop dead.

Dammit. Another one. They had hoped that the one in Fog Canyon was unique; they hadn’t run across another one yet. Maybe Quirrel knows—

Quirrel notices the sudden shift in their attention and turns to look at what they are seeing.

“What in the world is _that_?”

Well, so much for the straightforward way to get an answer.

Ghost shrugs, then walks over and pokes it.

Quirrel shouts, “ _Ghost!!_ Why did you do that!?”

They turn to face him and see that he has taken several steps closer to them. They shrug; why wouldn’t they? The other one hadn’t done anything except piss them off.

Irritated, Quirrel gestures at the wall. “What if it had injured you?”

Turning back to the wall of black, they contemplate it. Having run into the first one and been completely stymied, they knew it was pretty much impervious. But Quirrel isn’t wrong, and they probably shouldn’t have simply walked up to the first one and stuck a finger in it either. They have certainly injured themself many times here, doing something similar — jumping into a pool of bubbling acid because it looked like a fizzy hot spa comes to mind.

Abashed, they look over to Quirrel and wish they had thought to learn the sign for “sorry.” It seems like something they should rectify. They had wanted to sit and talk anyhow, so they walk over to the gate on the other side of the pit. It looks to have a lever on the other side; how aggravating.

Facing Quirrel, who looks exasperated, they sign, “Please come here. Down,” and then point to a spot nestled against the gate that forms a shallow corner.

Quirrel looks at the black wall, back at them, throws his hands up and walks over. He flops down into the corner and glares at them.

“There, I'm sitting. That was still reckless!”

Ghost nods, then pulls out the slate, writes, and turns it for him to read.

I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know that sign yet, so I couldn’t apologize as quickly as I wanted to.

Quirrel sighs, then briefly covers his eyes.

Dropping his hands and looking at them, he says quietly, “I didn’t think of that. This is how you sign ‘sorry’,” as he shows them.

Ghost sets the slate down and copies the sign, then points at his lap and asks, “Please? I need tell you.”

“Of course,” he says.

Ghost picks up the slate and walks over to him. Pausing, they reach up and softly touch the side of his face, and he puts his hand over theirs and presses it closer.

Turning around and sitting in his lap, they start to write as he leans forward, placing his head on theirs, his arms on his legs with his hands just barely resting against their cloak by their legs.

I want to tell you They hunch a little, nervously run their hands up and down the sides of the slate a few times, erase and try again. I need to tell you and stop again. This is hard.

Ghost brings the slate up and covers their face with it, trembling. They take a few deep breaths, slam the slate down and erase it again. Picking it back up, they write, I hate the way my body feels.

Quirrel sighs; it sounds sad.

Shaking their head a little, they continue, It is so cold, my body is squishy, and I am covered in something that feels like greasy, sticky fuzz.

As they erase to continue, Quirrel sits up a little and bows his head; they feel a soft breath on the top of their head and then a gentle scraping touch. As they start to write again, he leans forward and rests his head back on theirs.

Until you I haven’t been touched very often.

Shuddering, they continue, The times it has happened before, every time the bug has reacted badly. First to the cold, and then if they \- - - were willing to try again, then how I feels repulses them, they call me disgusting. I—

They stop at Quirrel’s outraged hiss. In a low voice he says, “No, don’t stop, you need to keep going.” Then snarls, “But I am _livid_. That is—”

He stops and inhales sharply, sits up some. “Keep going.”

Ghost makes a small nod; they have learned enough about him that they had expected the reaction. It is still reassuring.

I still don’t understand why it doesn’t bother you. They feel his hands clench, but he doesn’t interrupt, so they keep going. I keep telling myself that I don’t need to understand, but it isn’t working very well.

They feel Quirrel go rigid, starting to tremble with the tension, and his hands are still clenched. But he just nods for them to continue.

What I keep believing is that this is just for now —another sharp inhale— and after you have healed some \- - - you won’t need to touch as much, and then how my shell feels will matter and—

Quirrel grabs their shoulders and growls, “ _ **Stop**_.”

He is still shaking, tense; his grip is iron-hard.

He starts taking deep, regular breaths. Slowly the tension drains and the shaking stills.

Quietly he says, “It won’t. I know it isn’t as simple as me saying that and letting yourself believe me, but I promise, _it **won’t**_.”

Ghost nods. Quirrel is right, it is ridiculously hard to believe — but they intend to try.

With a small shudder, he lets go of their shoulders and clasps them in a hug. He leans forward, and they again feel him softly brush the top of their head before he releases them and drops his arms back to his legs and rests his head atop theirs.

“Ok,” he says.

I used to tell myself I didn’t like being touched, that I didn’t need to be touched. \- - - But I think something within me will break if you ever stop, if you ever tell me to stop.

Quirrel has gone absolutely still. They aren’t even sure he is breathing.

Please don’t stop. I am scared, but I want to learn not to be.

Ghost leans back, into his chest, and his arms are suddenly around them, squeezing hard, and he curls around them to place his chin on their forehead.

“I can do that,” he whispers.

They remain sitting that way until Quirrel becomes chilled and begins to shiver.

He releases them as they lean forward, and they pick up the slate to ask, Can I poke it with my nail?

Quirrel barks a laugh and shoves them out of his lap, saying “As if I could stop you!”

Putting the slate away as they stand up and turn around, they shrug at him, unrepentant.

* * *

It doesn’t respond any differently to their nail than the other one had, pushing it back before it even makes contact. Quirrel also pokes at it with his nail and gets the same result.

When Ghost runs straight at it, he just sighs as they bounce back. Hands on his hips, he watches as they run at it again and then dash, successfully bouncing back further. He starts shaking his head as they take another run at it, leap, and dash at the top — they succeed in bouncing back nearly halfway across the bottom of the pit this time.

“Any other ways you intend to bash your head against this obstacle?” he asks, voice dripping sarcasm.

Well, since he asked… there is one option that had been unavailable to them the last time. They walk over to him, point at the hip pack, and hold their hand out.

“Absolutely not.”

They start wiggling their fingers.

“No!”

Ghost dashes over and grabs at the zipper, dancing around as Quirrel spins away, laughing. They jump up and attempt to tackle him, but they don’t weigh nearly enough to have any effect whatsoever. He grabs them as they bounce off and then whirls around, dropping to his knees and pinning them to the ground. They buck up against his hands, shoving him away and then rolling to the side before he can pounce back onto them. He’s almost breathless with laughter, and pivots on his knees to keep them in sight.

Jumping up, they dash through the air over his head and land behind him. He ducks forward and rolls but gets hung up on the backpack he obviously forgot was there and is briefly stuck upside down. With absolutely no shame whatsoever, Ghost takes full advantage of his error, scrambling in and grabbing the zipper while he shrieks and grabs at them. They discover _their_ error as the upside-down hip pack promptly empties onto the ground — they only pause briefly before grabbing the Crystal Heart. Jumping up and clinging to the side of a ledge they launch themself at the flowing wall of darkness.

Sadly, instead of bouncing back, when they crash into the wall at full speed it ends the same way crashing into any wall with the Crystal Heart does: they just slide straight to the ground. The wall pushes them back a little as they land on the grass, adding that last little insult. _Highly_ disappointing.

Quirrel is on his side underneath a center ledge — having righted himself but unable to sit up — gleefully laughing at them.

They cross their arms and glare, which results in him rolling partway onto his back — hanging up on the backpack again — and then he lays there, gasping.

“You… damn well… better be… helping… me pick… all of this… up!” he wheezes.

When Ghost finally stands up and moves over to help, Quirrel smoothly rolls off of his side, lunges over, and tackles them, this time pinning them by simply laying on top of them with an evil chuckle. The jerk is taking full advantage of knowing that they don’t need to breathe, and they can’t just push up — their hands are small enough they might actually hurt him.

After wriggling around for a little bit, which he efficiently counters by the extremely talented maneuver of shifting in whatever direction they move, they give up and surrender to the inevitable. They tap his chest twice, and he rolls off of them and then sits on his knees, grinning at them like a damn fool.

* * *

It takes a little time to find all the items that had fallen out of the hip pack and put them back. There is another brief tussle before Ghost gives in and surrenders the Crystal Heart back over to Quirrel, and then they stand together, looking at the lever on the other side of the gate. Quirrel seems just as aggravated at it as they are.

“I’ve run across some of these before, so I presume you have as well. I take it shooting doesn’t move the lever?” he asks.

They shake their head, and then demonstrate. The wave of soul fizzles to nothing as it strikes the grating, barely making it past any of the wide-open holes that _it should have passed through just fine_.

They toss their hands up in frustration and turn back to face him.

“I agree.”

He turns to go back, then stops.

“Hmmm… I wonder. Let’s look at your map a moment,” he says.

He sits down and leans against the gate, then reaches towards them.

Pulling the map out, they hand it over.

He snorts as he takes it, then shakes his head and reaches out again. It takes them a moment to figure it out, then they step over and drop into his lap as he wraps his arm around them.

He tucks his face against the outside of their left horn and chuckles, “You may regret having given me carte blanche on this.”

They shiver a little but know they won’t. It is just that the war in their mind between what feels so damn good and nearly 300 years of self-loathing will take time.

Quirrel must have picked up on the shiver. He turns his head a little and rubs his cheek on their horn, says quietly, “On a more serious note, please tell me if you get overwhelmed, or need me to back off some. I understand, and would far rather you say ‘no’ too soon than too late. It is a lot easier to pick up the pieces and figure out what went wrong, what to do differently, if the drop is small and the damage minimal.”

Ghost nods, leaning into his nuzzle.

“Good.”

Quirrel spreads the map out in front of them, then folds it up so that the area where they are sitting is on top.

“Go ahead and fill in this bit, as well as what you found when you went swimming. I am wondering what the odds are that these connect, and whether you can get under and around to the lever.”

Pulling out the quill, Ghost is willing to bet they do, although Hallownest is such a maze that sometimes things that _should_ connect don’t, and there are one or two instances where things _do_ connect for no gods-be-damned good reason.

Finishing up the sketching, they add a label that the bottom branch heads into the Queen’s Gardens and sit back.

Quirrel nods and touches the map just to the left of the drying ink.

“I think it is pretty likely this hooks up. What do you say to another swim?”

Ghost nods, then taps the little hut they had drawn at the top of the pit they were currently sitting in, and then holds up one finger.

“Check out the dwelling first?”

They nod again, then twist around to reach behind him and tap his backpack.

“I was actually thinking that we would maybe go back home after we finish up this little puzzle. I am definitely not packed well for traveling, so it needs reorganizing, and you still have a bunch of my extraneous stuff rattling around your insides somewhere,” he says.

It definitely doesn’t bother them to have it in there, but Quirrel needing to get himself organized makes sense. They have no idea where stuff goes while it is inside of them, but when they want something they just know where it is and can grab it.

They nod to let him know that works and stand to climb back up to the little hut.

* * *

Quirrel waits until they have made it most of the way up before making the leap himself. It turns out he was just a little short, and he flips around to land on one of the upper ledges. Turning to look at the other side, he discovers that they aren’t quite level with each other.

“Ahhh, I see. I believe I would have made it if I had been aiming at the side we were originally discussing,” he says.

Ghost agrees with him, and nods. They are still impressed — that is one hell of a jump straight up. While he can’t go everywhere they can, it is very obvious that there will also be plenty of places he can go that they can’t.

Hopping over to join them, he asks, “Do you need to replenish your soul?” and points at the little flying green bushes that look like mosscreeps. Except flying. Ghost hasn’t seen them before killing the one on the way in. Mossfly, that was it.

They shake their head, guessing he may need some. Ghost realizes they have no clue how soul works for other bugs. The only thing they had been able to do with it before coming to Hallownest was heal, and since most things actually left a person alone — not driven to attack in an infected frenzy — they hadn’t run around indiscriminately slaughtering the general countryside to gain it. Which generally meant healing had to be done the hard way: by waiting.

Quirrel nods, then steps over and slaughters the general countryside, clearing out the three mossflies in front of the hut. He picks up the bodies and looks them over, then must decide they aren’t worth saving for food because he promptly dumps them into the acid pool.

Turning back, he says, “I don’t have a particularly large soul reservoir. Since this might be useful for you to know in a fight, I can get two leaps or falls before I need to recharge, but during a fight that isn’t usually too difficult to recoup. I’ve seen you use soul both as spells and for healing, neither of which I can do. Do they require different amounts of soul?”

Ghost shakes their head, then waits for what they figure will be the next question.

Nodding, he asks the question they expected. “How many times can you use them?”

Matching the beat of how quickly they can fire a spell, they hold up one finger, add a second, then the third. They wait a beat, then hold their thumb out. Hopefully that lets him know that they can use three spells in a row, but then have to let the soul discharge from the container into themself to use the fourth.

“Four shots, but there is a delay before you can use the fourth?” he asks.

Pleased, they nod again.

“Can you gain soul through other means than striking with your nail?”

Holding their hand out they wobble it, then sign, “Yes, I show later.”

“Ok. Shall we continue then?” and indicates the entry to the little overgrown mound.

Ghost nods, and they go on in.

* * *

There isn’t a whole lot of interest within the mound. A couple of squits, the ever-present accumulation of spikes as flooring material — seriously, what the fuck is up with that — and at the back there is a fossilized snail shaman. In front of it hangs a shimmering bit of soul that Ghost recognizes as a spell they can absorb, but Quirrel has never seen its like before. They pull out the slate and explain what it is, which results in explaining how Ghost knows what it is, which results in a small discussion about Snail Shamans and then the Soul Sanctum, which reveals that Quirrel doesn’t remember much about either but has an instant aversion to the idea of going to the Sanctum.

Ghost is very curious about whether Quirrel could absorb the spell, but he flat-out refuses to even try.

“No. I won’t. I don’t know why, but I absolutely know that it would be a horrible idea for me to even attempt,” he tells them.

Shrugging, they jump up to absorb it.

It seems they had forgotten to tell Quirrel what happens when they absorb a spell, because he screams when they get stuck in mid-air and their body semi-disintegrates in a blast of soul before they drop to the ground, stunned.

Oops.

As they regain consciousness, they find he has scooped them up and is crushing them against his chest, repeatedly whispering, “They’re ok, they knew what would happen, they’re ok…” as he sits and rocks them.

Truthfully, they aren’t ok, they feel awful that they didn’t warn him. The problem is that they are used to just _doing_ once they’ve decided to do the thing. Needing to make sure someone else is prepared to _watch them_ do the thing hasn’t come up before.

They move, and Quirrel gasps and grabs their arms, sets them upright in front of him, and says in a furious whisper, “You need to stop _doing this_ to me!”

Ghost makes a small nod; they would apologize but he has their arms pinned in a death grip.

With a small sob, he lets go of their arms and grabs their head instead, pulling them over and against him again, this time brushing the top of their head with his mandibles in a brief kiss before once again wrapping his arms around them in a tight hug. He’s trembling.

Wriggling a little, they get their arms free and wrap them around his neck and hug back, gently rubbing the back of his head through his kerchief.

Inhaling shakily, Quirrel says, “I suspect that I wouldn’t have survived having my body ripped apart to have the spell integrated, so I’m glad I didn’t try.”

Ghost freezes. They hadn’t even thought of that when they suggested he try taking the spell.

They could have killed him.

Ghost now has Quirrel in an iron grip, terrified.

Quirrel murmurs, “You have some habits you need to unlearn, my dear, if we are going to survive each other for more than two days.”

They nod, then bury their face into his shoulder, shaking.

At the sudden bloom of fear and panic in their chest, they vaguely realize they haven’t learned any signs for ‘panic attack’ and that this is also a terrible oversight.

Quirrel’s grip around them is suddenly too much, too confining, and they shove away, breath heaving. They need to get free, have their hands free so they can keep him _safe_ , they need to protect him. They _didn’t_ protect him; they didn’t see the danger. But there is something here that is dangerous, _it will kill him_ if he touches it, they didn’t see it soon enough. They need to find it and kill it, protect Quirrel from it. Ghost draws their nail and spins in a circle, watching, trying to find—

“Ghost, can you see me? Ghost, I need you to look at me. I need you to focus, look at me.”

Quirrel’s voice is soft, calm, finally worms its way into their head. Their head snaps over to him, and their eyes latch onto his.

“I see you; can you see me?”

They nod, their gaze drifting away, looking for the danger, where did it _go_? Is it behind the statue? They need to _find it_ and protect—

“Ghost, I need you to look at me, I’m over here. You need to turn around and look at me, I’m right here, I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Quirrel’s voice catches their attention again, soothing. They look back and see him sitting there. He’s relaxed, his hands on his knees as he sits cross-legged.

“I’m right here, I see you, can you see me?”

They nod again, and this time he raises his hand before they can look away, holding it upright in front of him, palm facing them. Puzzled, they stare at it before looking back at him.

“Do you see my hand?” he asks.

What kind of question is that? It’s right there, in front of him. They nod, and he folds his thumb in.

“Good. Now look to your right and then look back at me, ok?”

Confused, Ghost nods and then glances to their right at the stone shaman. Is that where the danger is? They don’t see anything, is it behind the statue? They stare at it, turning back to Quirrel when he quietly says their name.

“Did you see the statue?” he asks calmly. They nod, start to look back at it, stop when their attention is caught by the movement of Quirrel folding in his little finger. They look at his hand, then back into his eyes.

“You’re doing fine, Ghost. Now look to your left, and then back to me. Can you do that?”

Nodding, they glance to their left, see the remains of one of the shaman lamps laying by the wall. They focus on it for a moment, then look back at Quirrel.

He gives them a small smile, then asks, “Did you see the lamp?”

They nod, he folds down another finger and then asks, “Was it blue?”

They shake their head, almost look back but Quirrel makes a small movement and they stop.

“Was it red?”

Yes, it was red, so they nod.

Quirrel folds down his last finger, turns his hand so that his palm is facing him, and then asks, “Can you hear me talking?”

What the fuck, yes? They’ve been answering his damn weird questions, after all. Standing up a little straighter and cocking their head to the side, they nod.

Quirrel lifts his index finger, then starts gently tapping the floor with his other hand and asks, “Can you hear me tapping the floor?”

This is weird, but they have a suspicion they know what he is doing now. They take a deep breath and let it out slowly, and nod.

Lifting a second finger, they can see his body sink forward a little. He hadn’t been nearly as relaxed as he had initially appeared. “If you touch the floor, is it smooth?”

They glance down, then look back at him. Placing their nail on their back, they kneel down and feel the floor. It isn’t very smooth, so they shake their head.

“Is it rough?”

Ghost nods and stands back up.

Quirrel holds up a third finger, then quietly asks, “Are you back here, with me, in the now?”

They nod again, and he lifts his thumb out, then slowly reaches towards them. “Would it be ok if you took my hand, or is that a bad idea?”

They have no clue, figure honesty is the best policy at the moment, sign, “Unsure, I not know.”

“Ok, that’s fine.” He drops his hand, then clasps his together in the middle of his lap.

“Do you think you could come over here, sit in front of me?”

Pausing a moment before answering, Ghost nods, then walks over to sit in front of him.

“Is this one done for now, or will it likely flare back up if we aren’t careful?”

They think, evaluating how they feel. They are still a bit shaky, although it seems they won’t have a headache this time. They aren’t drained, either. It’s all weird, but that edge of feeling like their control is slipping is gone for now. They wonder how much of the fast resolution is due to the shock of what he was doing vs. the technique itself, or even just the fact that someone was here and helping, staying calm against their panic, wanting to help.

Ghost signs, “I ok now, ok later. I sorry I upset you. Sorry sorry.”

“I know. We both have some… a _lot_ of adjusting to do.”

Quirrel sighs deeply. “How about this,” he says. “I will do my best to remember and ask what will happen, and you do your best to remember to tell me what will happen, and between the two of us we might remember most of the time. Can we try that?”

Ghost nods.

“Shall we go figure out what you just learned?”

That sounds like an excellent plan; Ghost has a general idea of what the spell is meant to do, but until they try it, they won’t actually _know_. So they nod, stand up, and then hold their hand out to Quirrel.

He makes a small, breathy laugh, stands up, and takes their hand.

* * *

Back outside of the mound, Ghost gestures for Quirrel to stand back a little bit. They try to give him an idea of what they believe the spell will do by placing their hands at chest level and then fling their arms upwards and out while watching him.

“This one goes up and spreads out?” he asks.

At their nod, he follows up with, “Do you know anything else about it? Such as how far out it will spread?”

When they shake their head, he backs up a little further and then sits down on the ground. “I figure if it goes up, if I sit down, I’ll be a little safer. Hopefully.”

Ghost nods, and then lets loose. Soul shoots upwards — although they really can’t tell how far from underneath like this — and spreads out to at least five times their arm span in diameter. It is accompanied by a gods-awful _scream_ that reverberates without being particularly loud.

They turn and look at Quirrel to get his input and find him staring at them in shock.

Worried, they run towards him, but he is shaking his head by the time they get to his side.

“No, I am fine. I didn’t expect the screaming! It is… haunting,” he says.

“I not know,” Ghost signs back. They don’t know signs for ‘also’ or ‘either’ so they hope he understands.

He nods and stands back up.

“Could you see how far up it went from underneath like that?”

Ghost shakes their head. They could guess, but it would be nice to know.

Quirrel steps over next to them, and then holds his hand almost as high as he can reach.

“To about here, I believe. It got a bit fuzzy around the edges, so I don’t know if the effects would extend beyond that or not.”

Looking up, that puts it at about twice their height over them, a bit higher than they can jump. It’s nice to not have to learn that through trial and error.

“Thank you,” they sign.

Smiling, he says, “You are quite welcome.”

Looking around, he asks, “Is there anything else here, or is it time for you to go swimming?”

Ghost lightly smacks Quirrel’s leg, startling him and he looks down at them.

Holding up one finger, they shake their head. They hold up a second finger, and nod.

“Ahhh. Yes, my apologies. It is an awfully hard habit to break. I promise I am trying,” he says.

They nod.

“I was thinking I would head back down and wait by the gate rather than follow you,” Quirrel says. “If it doesn’t connect, you will need to come and fetch me, but if it does this would be far faster than having me wait down there, where you would have to come back and let me know and then I would have to hike back here anyhow. Is that an acceptable plan?”

Ghost nods: that is pretty much what they had been thinking as well.

“Good. I hope to see you in about an hour, by my guess. Is there anything I should do if you don’t show up?”

Thinking for a few moments, Ghost shakes their head. They have no clue what he could do to help if something goes wrong. So long as this gate is closed, he can’t reach them.

Quirrel sighs. “I was afraid of that. I can’t get there until you open this. How long should I wait?” he asks.

Considering, they think a little. If they get killed, the last spot they remember that they should return to would be in King’s Station, which isn’t that far after a stag trip. That leaves getting trapped by terrain in such a way that they have to keep hunting for a way back out until they succeed.

Pulling out the slate, they sit down to start writing.

Quirrel sits beside them and wraps his arm behind them, watching.

Finishing up the first round, they lean against him while he reads.

If I remember right, I should return to King’s Station if I get killed. So it shouldn’t take too long to get back \- - - here and let you know before I go back. \- - - The other possibility is that I end up trapped and need to search until I find a way back out. I can’t predict \- - - how long that might take. So if I haven’t come back here in two hours, it is likely going to be significantly \- - - longer than that, and you might as well go back home until I find my way back.

“I was afraid that was what you were going to say,” Quirrel sighs quietly. He leans over and brushes a feather-light kiss on the top of their horn.

“I think you ended up with my knife kit and cooking kit,” he says. “Other stuff as well, but if you leave me those, I can go about getting my bags at least partially reorganized and folded back the way I normally have them for traveling. It will give me something to do for a little while, keep myself occupied while I wait.”

Ghost nods, still reeling from the kiss. They’ve never been… except that isn’t true. He had kissed the top of their head earlier, while he was so upset… but if that’s how it feels, then that means that he’s actually done it a number of times now. They just didn’t know what it was, and since they couldn’t see they hadn’t recognized what was happening.

Standing up, they mindlessly pull out the items he had requested. They still don’t know exactly what is happening, but it is absolutely terrifying, and they don’t want it to stop.

Ghost steps up to him, briefly leans their forehead onto his, and then turns around and flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two out of two now!
> 
> * * *
> 
> On a separate note, I did go back and do some general cleanup of spelling, grammar, and formatting errors in the first six chapters. Nothing worth re-reading for, but if you do re-read and have a vague sense something is a little different, that is likely why.


	8. You Could Be My Unintended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel thinks he understands what is happening, but misses the mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Measurement: [guz](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guz) ≈1 m (≈1 yd). Chosen because it is used to mean 1 yd in modern times, which gets me close enough to 1 m as an estimated semi-close distance. 1 m/1 yd is one of the few near-congruences of measurement between us weirdos in the US and the rest of the sane world.
> 
> Guz also has the bonus of being nearly the same as “gruz” which tickles me.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Brief mention of _Cancer_.

#### Quirrel

* * *

Quirrel is in deep.

He doesn’t consider it trouble — and he most certainly doesn’t want to be _out_ of it — but if he isn’t more careful, it will be.

He is, at a bare minimum, deeply infatuated. Being what Monomon had once called ‘a damned cheerful realist’ in a fit of aggravation, he refuses to consider it as more than that, no matter how promising the signs are that it may move beyond that. On his end, at any rate.

He is acutely aware that it is unlikely that Ghost has been in an intimate relationship, platonic or otherwise.

As a highly personable bug, Quirrel himself falls into and out of casual relationships fairly easily. They are fun, enjoyable, and neither party ever expects more from it — especially since he is a wanderer. As far as his relationships prior to leaving Hallownest, he now has bits and pieces of memories from several, and despite the net-like nature, it doesn’t seem like leaving has drastically altered his leanings or behaviors beyond the fact that having a more stable lifestyle had meant that some of those relationships were concurrent. There is a vague feeling one or two had gotten serious, but he doesn’t believe he had been in one of those at the end.

Leaping down to one of the central ledges and then to the bottom clearing, Quirrel strides over to sit next to the gate, sheds his backpack and hip pack, and starts emptying everything onto the ground. Organizing everything, having an hour or so alone, will help re-center him a little bit.

As Quirrel refolds his sleeping bag, he starts trying to organize his thoughts as well. He knows that he wants far more than a casual relationship, but ultimately it may not matter what he wants. His memory may be full of holes, but he thinks he has put together enough to know that unless something changes drastically, Ghost is on a collision course with damnation.

He knows a little bit of what loving someone who is dying means, what that ride will be. He knows the family went through it when mama died to cancer. He has seen it occasionally during his travels. The only positive aspect to any of it is that Ghost is unlikely to waste away, being eaten from the inside out, before they are taken from him.

Looking down at the sleeping bag, he finds his fists clenched in it. Sighing, he forces himself to relax a bit. He’s worried about himself, as well. He doubts he is protected from the Infection now, if he ever was. Whatever is driving the infection — he now has a spotty recollection it isn’t a disease — goes even wilder in Ghost’s presence. Where he can mostly move around unmolested when he stays a reasonable distance away from infected creatures, they seem to home in on Ghost from over ten guz away. It’s _terrifying_.

And if Quirrel becomes infected…

He remembers enough to know it isn’t a switch. He won’t wake one morning as a mindless monster slavering orange; but he isn’t sure that is better. Watching someone slowly succumb to mindlessness is as excruciating as watching someone slowly succumb to cancer. But it does mean that there will be at least a little time to make decisions before he can no longer do so. Bringing it up before then strikes him as mindless cruelty, considering what either of the theoretical solutions are going to be.

In one of those taunting almost-there memories, he thinks that some part of this is what he and Monomon were so bitterly at odds over. But not quite. It was just…

He needs to stop fussing. It doesn’t _help_ to chase his memories around like this. Now that he has been away from the Archives for a few days — barring an hour or so yesterday — he can recognize that what happens there is beyond unsustainable. That hour drove the message home with a sledgehammer. Ghost is right, the mind isn’t meant for whatever is happening to him in there.

Things are slowly coming back; he _can_ tell that much. They aren’t just fizzling out to nothing if he isn’t able to immediately understand them. Which likely means that Ghost is also right about what would happen if he tries to pull everything back together as fast as possible. This doesn’t mean he has to be _happy_ about it. But it does leave him able to be happy about _other_ things, which he is reluctantly admitting is an acceptable tradeoff.

Pulling out the cooking kit, he starts sorting through it and returning several of the scattered items from the hip pack that originally should have been in it. There are some things missing; Ghost likely has them.

He needs to figure out what Ghost is able to handle. What they want, what they are feeling. Because he is damn sure that the signals he is picking up and responding to are _not_ the signals they are sending. In fact, he is absolutely positive that unless he brings it up, it isn’t even something that has crossed their mind. Perhaps eventually, but a bug doesn’t go from never being touched to understanding the nuances of various kinds of touching… they hadn’t had a clue they had done anything but look at his hand yesterday, until he had responded in a way that confused them.

And _oh_ , had he _responded_.

It had shocked him to his core, how much he had _wanted_ in that moment. Was _still_ wanting. Wanting to touch, to hold, to be with — to love. Arousal as well, but he is perfectly content dealing with that on his own.

He needs to get aligned with reality. And the reality is that Ghost’s social cues are a mess right now. They have apparently been blindsided by wanting as well, by needing. As a result, they haven’t sent any of the cues that would mean ‘slow down’ or ‘stop,’ and until he felt them briefly freeze when he had unthinkingly brushed that last kiss onto their horn, he hadn’t even considered that they wouldn’t know they needed to. What _that_ means is that he may have accidentally ended up a lot farther along the road of non-consensual behavior than he had ever thought possible; the thought is terrifying.

He needs to have a talk with Ghost. He has always had some very deep-seated beliefs about consent and frank, open discussions of relationships and sex. Remembering his family had provided some context as to why that might be — you don’t have a happy, healthy polycule without frank and open discussions.

But he is pretty damn sure this situation isn’t one he could have prepared for, and in the back of his mind he feels like Monomon would be laughing her metaphorical ass off that he, Quirrel, is having a fit of embarrassment and getting flustered about approaching the topic. From some of the memory snippets, he also has a suspicion the laughter would have been well-earned — it is entirely possible that he had been a bit insufferable.

Sorting and reorganizing the small hunting and trap kit, he wonders if he is over-thinking the whole thing right now. It may be that all he needs to do is apologize and explain just a little bit of… of what? How far does he need to explain? He is assuming that after 300 years Ghost at least has a vague idea of sex as a concept, but he could get himself into a hell of a bind if they don’t. The thing is, he doesn’t want to be _insulting_.

Packing the hunting kit into its place in the backpack, he picks up the small set of knives and the sharpening kit, checking them over and verifying their condition. Maybe he is thinking about this all wrong. Sex isn’t the issue, or even the question. Not yet; possibly not ever. The issue is _consent_.

Consent as a topic is far more important, especially if they have limited their interactions with other bugs. You don’t have to figure out your own boundaries if you set the outer perimeter and then decide everything is a violation. As far as Quirrel can tell, Ghost just contracted their outer perimeter from somewhere so far out they could barely see it to just under their shell. Which still leaves it somewhere they can’t see it, but in a far more dangerous way since there are no warnings for incoming attacks.

Framing it in terms of consent, Quirrel is far more confident in how to approach the topic. He is comfortable in the knowledge that Ghost is well aware of their inexperience in handling being touched, and as much as he doesn’t want to use that last affectionate kiss as an example, the fact that he _knows it works_ as an example of overstepping a boundary means he messed up. And by his own standards, he messed up _badly_.

Sighing, he finishes repacking his bags and settles in to sharpen one of the knives.

* * *

A little later than he expected, Quirrel hears some small scraping sounds from the other side of the gate. This is followed by a light thump, a squeak, and then another light thump and a squeak. There is a thunk as if a gate had fallen open, a brief pause, then a second thunk followed by a slightly louder thump. This is followed by the fairly distinct sound of a nail smacking into metal a few times, a pause, and then thump-squeak-thunk four times in regular succession. After a few moments of silence, Ghost’s horns pop up over the edge of the ledge, and they land next to the lever.

They wave and then wallop the lever with their nail.

“Ghost! Why did you hit that with your nail!?” Quirrel greets them.

The answer is a shrug with an air of ‘why not?’

Shaking his head, he turns to pick up the hip pack as the gate drops, saying “I’m glad to see you back— _oof_!”

Quirrel now has an armful of Ghost and laughs as he returns the hug.

“Did anything go wrong?” he asks.

He feels them shake their head against his shoulder, then they back up a few steps to sign, “Unsure no.”

Remembering the conversation from the previous day, he decides ‘unsure’ is doing extra duties as an adverb for now and verifies, “Mostly no?” while making the sign for ‘mostly’.

Ghost nods, then points in the direction they just came from in an extremely aggravated fashion. Turning back, they hold one hand vertical and place the other one horizontally in front of it like a shelf. They then move the hand that was vertical and place it fingers-down onto the horizontal hand, pause, and then rotate the hand acting as a shelf so that it drops, and they slam their other hand downward. Throwing their hands up in the air, they point back the way they came, pull their nail and wave it around in exaggerated frustration, put it back, and then plop to the ground in a huff.

Laughing, Quirrel says, “I have absolutely no idea what you just told me, although I am sure I will learn. It appears highly annoying.”

Ghost throws their hands up in the air, then tips over backwards and nods.

Shaking his head, Quirrel again reaches for the hip pack and stands up to strap it on. Bending over and grabbing the backpack, he asks, “Is it somewhere I can traverse? I…” and manages to stop the second question this time.

Rolling onto their side and propping their head on their hand, Ghost looks at him for a moment before sitting up and nodding.

“Were you measuring me up or trying to decide if I was going to… blast it!”

Shaking slightly, Ghost holds up two fingers.

“That is called _entrapment_ ,” he grumbles.

They continue to quiver but stand up and come over to his side. They touch his hand lightly, and when he looks at them, they point to the spot he had been sitting and sign, “I tell you now, us think. Go now, not go wait later go. Ok?”

Quirrel nods, and then sits back down as Ghost follows him over.

Pointing at his lap, they sign, “Ok?”

Nodding again, he adjusts his crossed legs a little so they can sit in the middle and leans back as they sit down.

Ghost writes, I explored a little bit beyond before coming up, but not far. I just looked into the next area to see if it was acid.

At Quirrel’s nod, they continue, It is open, so if we go down now we can go back and you can see the other side of the acid pond, and look into \- - - the other room and check it out to see if it will be something that has paths to explore, or if it is a dead end.

“I believe that makes the most sense. Are you thinking that we should head back afterwards? Or will it depend on what we find?”

Ghost snorts, and Quirrel thumps his head back against the wall, frustrated with himself.

Don’t worry yourself too much, it’s amusing.

Sighing, he says, “Perhaps, but it is rude. Particularly when you are signing and don’t have enough words to articulate which option or question you are answering.”

Shaking their head, they pat his knee briefly and then write, As long as you manage not to ramble too long, using one or two fingers to show I’m responding to the first or second thought is fine.

Leaning forward, Quirrel bumps his forehead against their horn and chuckles, “You are too kind. So, what is the plan?”

Ghost sits back a little, thinking.

They write, Let’s go down and check out from where the acid pool is over to that room. There is also a branch just below this \- - - that appears to loop back up to the black wall over there. We can see if it is just a circle or leads somewhere.

After that, it will depend on how large the room is and if there are multiple options. If it just goes through \- - - and is small, we can go to the other side and see what is there, but either way I think that we should stop exploring here \- - - and go back to the Mantis Village next. Once we have obtained one of the claws, we can head to the room and organize your things, \- - - make sure you know where stuff is.

Unsurprised at their methodical approach, he says, “I think that sounds like a good place to start.”

Nodding, Ghost stands and puts the slate away, stepping forward to give him room to stand up. Leading the way, they set off.

* * *

Exploring the other side of the area under where they had been reveals that it just loops back up to the wall of black and goes no further. There is a path down below that, which is where Quirrel figures out what Ghost was trying to tell him with the pantomime; he can understand their frustration.

Once on the ground, he watches as the shelves reset back up in succession. Something is tickling at the back of his mind, and he says, “I believe there is a reason why they act this way, as well as a switch somewhere that can latch them either up or down in addition to this behavior. Perhaps I will eventually remember why, or where the switch is, but I don’t at the moment.”

He turns to face them and shrugs.

Ghost continues to menace the shelves with a glare for a few more moments, and then they sigh and gesture to the east and start walking off.

* * *

There isn’t much to see in this area, Quirrel agrees. The pond of acid begins at the end of the walkway they are on, which comes through what is obviously an entryway to the Queen’s Gardens. The thorns have overgrown so much that they are almost touching the acid, which is why he couldn’t simply dash through. He finds it puzzling that there is no evidence of a walkway or bridge that spanned the acid pool, and wonders if the acid has risen and filled in a patio, or if this was always meant as a way to block bugs who couldn’t fly somehow.

Ghost taps his hand gently, and when he turns, they are looking at him expectantly.

Sighing, he apologizes, “Sorry, I was merely idly musing about the area. We can—”

He stops when they start shaking their head.

“Please, I want you tell me you think. I happy you tell me, please? You not sorry, I not upset. Ok?” they sign.

Surprised, he stares at them for a moment before saying, “I don’t actually know much about this spot, so it truly was just musing. You want me to just ramble on?”

They look a little taken aback, but just nod. “Not ok? I not understand.”

He laughs, says, “I am just not used to it. I often find bugs are interested in listening when I know what I am talking about, when I am sharing facts, but are far less intrigued by the internal meanderings of my mind when I _don’t_ know the answers and I am…” He waves his arms around a little bit, then continues, “engaging in fanciful speculation.”

Quirrel looks down at them and shrugs. “I most certainly don’t mind telling you, I just don’t want to irritate you.”

Ghost shakes their head, signs, “I understand you not know, I happy you tell me you think. Want you tell me please.”

As warmth blooms through his chest, Quirrel decides he is absolutely a lost cause. Smiling, he places his hand on the side of their head and rubs briefly, and then tells them what he had been musing about the room.

* * *

Back through to the western room Ghost had poked their head into earlier, they find an infected flying mantis Petra, and discover that the path upward is blocked by yet another gate with a lever just to the other side. Quirrel swears that Ghost is vibrating so hard with frustration that it is coming across as a low growl, but chalks it up to his imagination.

The downward path appears to have multiple swinging shelves, although from up top they can’t see very much to either side. There is a mossfly hovering just below the other ledge, and they can hear another mantis buzzing around somewhere below.

Quirrel has never observed Ghost explore an area they have never been to before. It seems their rather cavalier approach to the world shifts fairly dramatically when they can’t see what they are getting themself into, which comes as a great relief. In this case, they bounce down onto the first shelf and then dash to the side wall before murdering the mossfly. Then, clinging to the wall, they look across the room as they slowly sink down until they hear the first shelf reset. They climb back up and hop onto it, and then up and over to where Quirrel is waiting.

Shaking their head, they gesture back the way they had both come from and sign, “Stop here, not go down. Go later.”

Quirrel nods and follows them into Fog Canyon and back to the active stag platform in Queen’s Station.

* * *

An hour or two later, and they are both sitting on the bench in Queen’s Station, poking at Ghost’s map. There aren’t any convenient stag stations near the Mantis Village, so they are going to have to walk the whole way. This means that they won’t be getting back home tonight, because it is already fairly late in the day. Realistically, they likely wouldn’t make to the Village tonight either, especially since Quirrel hasn’t ‘earned the respect’ of the Mantis Lords.

Quirrel is intrigued by the notion of how that works and is willing to give it a try. The only unknown is whether or not — if he isn’t successful and is failing the fight — the Lords will let him cede and leave the Village in one piece. Ghost admits they never tried to forfeit and had to try again.

He does notice that they avoided using ‘died’ when referring to how their attempt prior to success ended, and he is grateful, but he is still agonizing over it happening if — no, _while_ — he is aware it is happening. And he is well aware that the ‘deeper’ he gets, the worse the whole ordeal is going to be.

Startled out of his thoughts when Ghost leans into him and points to an alcove a short distance into the Fungal Wastes, he asks, “Is that where you think we could sleep?”

Ghost nods, taps the spot again, and starts folding the map back up. Waving at Enric, they both take their leave.

* * *

The trip over to where they had decided to sleep has been fairly uneventful. As Quirrel watches Ghost bounce across the purple mushrooms, seemingly for the sheer joy of flying, he is reminded of how they were bouncing themself off of the black wall of what was most likely Void. He hadn’t actually asked if they were trying to get through, simply assumed so. Now, however, he is wondering if they were bouncing for the fun of it. He can practically feel the glee radiating off of them as they fly to and fro, up one of the walls that are covered in them and then falling down to promptly start again.

They are having _fun_ and it is a delight to behold.

Smiling at them as they run up to him, he laughs when they grab his hand and bodily haul him over to the mushrooms, apparently wanting to watch him bounce around. He gives in to their prodding, their joy, and very quickly discovers that it is not easy to do by promptly launching off sideways instead of springing upwards, landing on his back in a pile of mushrooms and sending spores everywhere.

After shedding the backpack and multiple attempts later — Ghost trying to give him pointers through their merriment — he finally succeeds in at last making it to the top of the wall, where he collapses in amusement and exhaustion. It is nowhere near as easy as Ghost makes it look, although perhaps his problem is in assuming they suffer from physical exhaustion. He has never asked.

The fiend in question pops over the top of the wall and lands practically on top of him, and he startles sideways, laughing. They bounce in place a couple of times, and when he rolls onto his side to look at them, they flop down on the ground next to him.

Chuckling, he props his head on his hand and asks, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Ghost nods, then rolls a little closer so that they are facing him.

“I’m glad,” he says quietly.

Catching on to the situation setup a little sooner this time, he smiles as they nod and then asks, “Shall we head back down? I have some questions I would like to ask before we go to sleep, I believe there should be time if you are willing.”

Nodding again, they roll forward and lean into his chest; he puts his hand behind them and gives them a hug. After a moment they hop up and dash over the edge of the wall, plummeting out of sight before briefly bouncing back up and waving.

Amused, he follows them down.

* * *

Quirrel sets up his sleeping bag in the corner of the alcove they have chosen to rest in. Shuffling around, he pulls out the cooking kit and gestures at Ghost.

“There were some little spice containers that would have been near this in my room, about this big,” and he holds his fingers apart to show the size.

“Do you have those and are they easy to—” and stops as they reach into their cloak and pull them out.

Amazed, he shakes his head, smiles, and reaches over to take the spices. “That is absolutely astounding.”

Opening the cooking kit, he starts putting them away, and then notices Ghost has come over nearby to watch. Turning a little, he shows them how he is organizing the spices, how the utensils and pot nestle together with the plate and bowl, and how the whole thing folds up into a secure little bundle.

When they reach out, he hands them the kit and watches as they open it back up and prod things around. Putting it back the way he had it, they re-fold it and hand it back.

Standing more directly in front of him, Ghost signs, “I want you see,” and then they reach in and pull out the slate. They didn’t try disguising it under their cloak this time, although it happened quickly enough that he didn’t get a good look at what happened.

Startled, he sits back a little and looks at their face.

They write for a few moments, and then turn the slate around for him to see.

I know you are curious about how I do this. I honestly don’t know what happens, but I can show you how it looks at least.

He _very much_ wants to see, but also figures he isn’t going to get a better straight line if someone was setting it up for him. So he nods, but says, “I would be delighted to have you show me, but I want to ask those questions I mentioned first, and then we can come back to this. Is that acceptable?”

Ghost cocks their head to the side a little, and then nods slowly, obviously confused and perhaps a little worried.

Sighing, he adds, “Do you remember when we stopped at Queen’s Station yesterday, and you were looking at my hand, and I said I would explain my reaction later?”

They nod again.

He smiles, and tells them, “That will be part of what I’m explaining as well. It will make more sense after we talk.”

“Ok,” they sign, then point at his lap and sign, “Ok?”

Quirrel shakes his head and says, “No, I think it would be best if we face each other for this. After will be fine though,” smiling to soften it a bit.

Ghost fiddles with their cloak a little, then nods and sits down, setting the slate beside them and looking up at him.

Taking a deep breath, Quirrel says, “I know I said that you needed to let me know if you were being overwhelmed or thought I was touching you too often, but I have realized you may not know where to even start placing boundaries, or what boundaries you may want.” He glances briefly at his hands, then continues, “I made a mistake, when I didn’t ask first, before I kissed—”

Ghost is shaking their head, waving their arms for him to stop.

Quirrel shakes his head, quietly says, “I know you don’t agree that it was a mistake.”

They stop, looking bewildered, then sign, “I not understand.”

“Let me try asking this instead. When I gave you that kiss, how did you feel?”

They glance down at their hands, then over at the slate. They sign, “Unsure.”

He asks, “And now? Before I started asking questions, how did it make you feel if you thought about it?”

They stare at him for a few moments, then slowly pick up the slate and write, turn it around for him to read.

Terrified; elated.  
Scared; excited.  
Worried; happy.  
Confused; thrilled.

Stunned, Quirrel stares at the list.

After a few moments, Ghost turns the slate back, erases it, and starts writing again.

I know what it means, where this is probably going. You’re right, I’ve never gone down this road, I don’t know how it feels.

This is not the conversation Quirrel had thought they would be having. He nods for them to continue.

Since you brought it up now, I am guessing that when I was looking at your hand, you found that arousing?

Quirrel wonders how the conversation has ended up barreling straight back at him. Vaguely, he nods and says, “Among other things.”

Ghost turns the slate back to write some more.

I agree we are both emotional wrecks, but as an observer I never saw an example of these decisions being made logically.

So, this is how being on the other side of one of these conversations feels. He isn’t sure what to think of it, to not be the one driving. He nods again. Ghost snorts, writes again.

I don’t object to this path, seeing where it goes. You may be right, that we are moving faster than we should, when I don’t know \- - - how any of it works from the inside. Are you worried I won’t know when to say ‘no’ or ‘slow down’?

“Yes,” Quirrel says softly.

Ghost looks down at the slate, thinking. Quirrel stares numbly as they start writing again.

I was going to say that you shouldn’t worry, but I think that would be very naïve of me, having not been here before. \- - - If I hurt myself with overconfidence, I hurt you as well.

“Yes, it would. And it would hurt me _badly_ ,” he whispers.

Ghost puts the slate back in their lap, erases it, and then sits there running their hands up and down the sides for a while. They sigh and slump a little and write, I don’t know what to do about that.

Taking a steadying breath, Quirrel responds, “I do know that answer. I ask permission, every time, until you have a firmer understanding, a better feeling for this; for yourself. Until we know where the boundaries are, we don’t move them. Until you aren’t listing ‘terrified’ and ‘scared’ when I ask how something feels.” With a wry smile he says, “Although ‘confused’ and ‘worried’ are normal, and just mean boundaries are shifting. We need to pay attention to them because they could be warning signs instead of simply being the discomfort of change, but change is always discomfiting.” Sighing, he adds, “Sadly, this means no more little kisses for now.”

Ghost heaves a sigh, then nods. Write, What is the sign for ‘kiss’?

He shows them, and they repeat it.

Quirrel signs, “May I have a hug?”

Dropping the slate, Ghost launches themself at him.

* * *

After several minutes, Ghost steps back. They pat their abdomen, then sign, “You want now?”

With a laugh, Quirrel nods. “I am intensely curious.”

Ghost snorts at that, then shuffles around a little until they have one side of their cloak over their right shoulder and turn so he can see the exposed side. They glance at him, then place their right hand against their left side, and it seems to… merge into their side. Quirrel leans forward, captivated.

At his movement they glance back at him but continue to leave their hand within themselves. It looks like they are moving it about some, and then they start to pull it back out. What happens next makes him question his vision; the edges of their map warp oddly as they pull it out, as if it were something extremely small that is becoming normal-sized as it exits their body.

They straighten up and hand it to him.

Quirrel accepts the map with a “Huh!” and then hands it back.

They look at him to make sure he is watching and then slowly touch the map against their side. In the reverse of how it came out, where the map is touching their body it seems to warp and shrink oddly as they push it in, until the whole thing has disappeared. Their hand follows, briefly, before they withdraw it.

“ _Fascinating_ ,” he says.

Ghost shakes a little with a chuckle, starting to drop their cloak again. They stop, consider a moment, then hold their hand out to Quirrel.

He places his hand in theirs. They bring it over to themself, shift a little so that they are holding his fingers, and then lay his fingertips against their side.

Looking up at him they nod, and then pat the back of his hand.

Slightly confused, he asks, “Is there something in particular you are showing me?”

They gesture vaguely around their body and pat his hand again.

“I… alright, if you are sure.”

Quirrel hesitates briefly, to give them the chance to decide they aren’t sure, then moves his hand a bit so that his fingers are on their back. Shifting how he is sitting so that he is facing them more fully, he gently rubs their back.

Ghost is small. It is one of those obvious facts, but it feels different here, with his hand on them — if he spreads his fingers out, his hand can span their whole back.

Except for their head, hands, and lower arms, he hasn’t actually touched their shell before. When he has had occasion to touch their body, it has been through their cloak. He keeps his eyes on theirs as he continues rubbing their back. Their carapace is extraordinarily flexible — far more like a caterpillar’s skin than a bug’s shell. The surface texture is different, feeling like it is covered with a fine fuzz — similar to some plant leaves or fruits. Somehow it also manages to feel slightly greasy or waxy, but he can tell it doesn’t transfer. Overall, it is strange — but as he has told them before, he doesn’t find it off-putting.

He draws his hand up to their shoulder, runs into the edge of their cloak, and stops when it doesn’t give. Ghost flinches slightly when his thumbclaw catches the edge of some of the fiber but doesn’t otherwise move.

“I’m sorry, I… Ghost, is your cloak…” Quirrel shifts his hand slightly, gently trying to feel the edges with his fingers instead. “Do you _grow_ your cloak!?” he asks in astonishment.

Making a small huff, they nod, then step closer to him and push it up further, tilting their head so he can see the underside of it.

“My word,” he whispers, flabbergasted.

They shake a little, chuckling.

Leaning in closer, he brings his hand around to the front of their shoulder, and switches to pushing up a little with the back of his finger — he is far less likely to snag his claw on one of the fibers this way. He can see now where it is growing out from the shell of their head. Dropping his hand around to their back, he brings his other hand forward and using his knuckle, he carefully pushes their cloak down a little, so he can look at it from the outside. Where before he had thought it was just a tight fit, he can now see that the fibers are emerging from somewhere just beyond the edge of the shell of their head.

Astounded, Quirrel sits back. He withdraws the hand that had been atop their cloak, leaving his other on their back. Lowering their head, they look at him again.

Shaking his head a little and smiling, he quietly tells them, “You are a marvel.”

They look down briefly, then meet his eyes again and shrug.

He laughs lightly and starts to pull his hand back, but they capture it again and set it against their side. This time, they place their hand over it, hold firmly for a moment, then bring their hands forward and sign, “Ok you go here, you ok?”

Surprised, he asks, “Are you asking if it is ok to put my hand inside of you?”

“Yes.”

“Goodness. Have you ever put something living inside of you?”

“Yes.”

“I am assuming you both survived the experience; else you wouldn’t be suggesting this.”

A huff and a nod.

“Well then, I admit I’m intrigued.”

Ghost places their hand back atop his, and Quirrel gets the odd sensation of watching his hand warp into their body. Physically, it doesn’t feel much different from plunging his hand into ice-cold water, albeit more viscous. He can still feel their hand on the back of his. They give it a gentle squeeze, and he looks up at their face. They tilt their head in a question.

“It is remarkably similar to plunging my hand into a mountain lake. Very cold, feels like it is surrounded by a thin oil,” he informs them.

Bringing their other hand forward, they wiggle their fingers at him.

“I hope that means you want me to wriggle my fingers rather than give you my other hand to suck into yourself,” he says wryly.

They huff and nod. Quirrel notices he can't feel their body move, except at the very edge where his wrist is passing through their shell. It is very strange. He moves his fingers a little, stops when Ghost twitches.

“Did that hurt?” he asks.

Ghost slowly shakes their head, looking puzzled.

“It felt very strange?”

A firm nod this time.

Quirrel notices his fingers are starting to feel odd, and he doesn’t think it is due to the cold. Before he can mention it, their hand gently squeezes his again, and then he feels something brush up against his palm and he jumps.

“What was _that_?” he gasps.

Another huff, then the hand he can see makes a grabbing motion. Whatever it is still rests against his palm, but he confirms first: “You want me to grab it?”

They nod, and so he slowly curls his fingers around it, says “I have it.”

Ghost gently squeezes the hand he has inside of them, and then starts pulling it out. It is just as strange this direction as it was going in.

Freed from their innards, Quirrel looks at what he is holding. It is a small doll from one of the mountain Weevil clans, further south than his travels had taken him. He transfers it to his left hand and presses his right against his thigh, moving his aching fingers.

“This is of Bolchin make, I believe.” He slowly turns it, looking. It doesn’t appear to be anything particularly special, from a relic standpoint, which likely means the worth is in the giving or the giver.

“Did you make it that far south then?” he asks, looking back up and rubbing his right hand against his side.

They nod, watching as he turns the little doll.

“A friend gave it to you?”

They shake their head, then pause and wobble their hand. They catch sight of him flexing his right hand into and out of a fist, and point. “Ok?”

“Hmmm.”

Quirrel thinks for a few moments, bringing his hand up and looking at it. He turns it back and forth, continuing to flex his fingers.

“I believe it will be. It aches in an odd way, feels chilled even though it has warmed up, and seems a little weak. I believe the weakness is due to the ache, however.” He looks up and meets their eyes, says “We probably shouldn’t do much of that unless it is necessary for some odd reason.”

Ghost nods.

Quirrel looks at the little doll again, gently rubs his thumb across the front where the legs are simply etched into the thorax, stylized and angular. The execution is crude, but the artistry is evident. Whoever had made this was either just learning, and would become quite talented with practice, or had a natural grace for it that they never had time to develop.

Smiling, he hands it back, and Ghost puts it away.

“Shall we get some sleep then? After all, tomorrow will either be filled with excitement and fighting, or excitement and larceny,” he says.

Shoulders shaking, Ghost nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to be making shit up about the Queen’s Gardens wholesale. Perhaps even buy one bullshit idea, get one bullshit idea free markdown level. That place makes _no godsdamned sense_.
> 
> I am also going to be taking some liberties with distances. Among other things, I am granting Hallownest the benefit of the Y-axis, which means that things are going to be remarkably more expansive. I will use the map we all know and hate for the general overarching layout, but when things get into the nitty gritty, it is all going to go to hell because that map doesn’t have an actual Y-axis. This is mostly a forewarning that yelling at me that I messed up how to get somewhere is a moot point, because their map isn’t the same as your map, although I do intend to keep both the soft and hard locks imposed by the game as far as getting into specific locations.
> 
> I am also working on the assumption that, as with most video games, we are dealing with a compressed version of the area. My experience being limited, I know what Fallout 4 did to the countryside: hit the high points, then made it so you could walk your character to those places within a time frame that wouldn’t drive the players completely batty with boredom. What this means for my story is that that in a general sense, if Ghost and Quirrel could travel in a reasonable way, it would take them two to three days to actually traverse Hallownest side to side if traveling was all they did.
> 
> The stags are remarkably fast, and so getting from the Hidden Station (once they get it opened) to the Distant Village will be a four hour trip.
> 
> I suspect I will fuck that up; I apologize. Things may get ret-conned if I figure out it happened. I apologize for that as well.


	9. I'll Be There as Soon as I Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our dynamic duo attempt an escapade!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> No specific warnings.  
>   
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

They had decided on larceny.

While Quirrel is relatively certain he can successfully handle the challenge — and Ghost agrees — neither of them believe he can do it without injury. And without Ghost’s ability to simply heal, it would leave him vulnerable for a while. The hot springs would speed healing up considerably; but as with Ghost’s healing, the more patching up Quirrel does with soul, the more exhausted it leaves him afterwards. For Quirrel, it could reduce a week-long injury down to a day or two, but if his shell has been damaged, it still requires patching, and it would remain weaker until his next molt — and his stamina will be shot for nearly a week. Ghost told him that when they heal using soul, their body returns to full strength, but they are drained and tired, sleeping far more than their normal and needing to eat.

So, while larceny didn’t guarantee freedom from injury, the odds were better.

Quirrel had suggested that Ghost simply go in and swipe one of the claws, but they said the claw had essentially fused into their arms and hands when they touched it, indicating it had a magical component. They had tried picking up a second at the time, but it had simply phased out of existence after a few minutes. Quirrel thinks that this is so the claws can be handled as inventory but can’t come up with a good reason that the solidity isn’t permanent. He doesn’t know much about magic, though, so it is entirely possible there are limitations and perfectly valid reasons for the behavior, and for all he knows the fact that there is _any_ permanence is an amazing feat.

All of this is why Quirrel and Ghost are currently crouching behind some mushrooms, watching a couple of mantis warriors patrol the borders of the upper village.

The plan is to see if they can just flat-out bluff their way in. The Mantis Tribe lets Ghost travel peacefully within their territory, and so the hope is that they can simply walk in with Quirrel in tow. They are going to see how far they can get before someone starts asking questions. After that… well, after the questions start it is likely going to be pure and utter chaos.

Before they left, the two of them had spent a little bit of time trying to think of and teach Ghost some signs that could possibly apply in this situation, but neither of them knows whether the sign language Quirrel is teaching Ghost is one the mantises understand. Quirrel knows it had been the common sign in Hallownest — used by bugs that for whatever reason couldn’t make or hear the sounds needed for the common speech — although the vast majority of the citizenry only learned an absolute bare minimum.

They wait until the warriors are facing away from them, and then sneak back out a little way to approach openly.

* * *

“Halt! This is Mantis territory. The Little Warrior is recognized, but you are not.”

Ghost steps forward and signs, “Respect honored warriors. Us here peace, he with me, under my protection.”

The two warriors are now glaring at Ghost. “Little Warrior, you did not speak before. We do not know that sign.”

The one on the left leans over and whispers to the one on the right.

The one on the right speaks again, “You must wait outside of our borders while Ketna goes to find her sister,” and then gestures for them to go back the way they came.

Once Ghost and Quirrel start walking away, the other mantis — presumably Ketna — heads into the village. After a short while, another warrior joins the one who stayed.

Quirrel and Ghost wait by the border sign for a while, deciding to sit down and review Ghost’s vocabulary when it becomes obvious the translator isn’t showing up any time soon. Ghost is absorbing the knowledge quickly, but in Quirrel’s experience if a person doesn’t sit and review some, as they learn more it will start to get jumbled.

Ketna returns with her sister a little over an hour later; without knowing what she was up to, there is no way to know if this was a deliberate delay or not. Quirrel does know the Village is fairly large and doesn’t feel the wait was unwarranted.

Ketna says, “This is Leslan, and she knows that language, although not extensively.” She bows and steps back, allowing Leslan to step forward.

Leslan bows as well, then signs, “Greetings Warrior, you welcome here. Not know you guest, what reason here.”

Ghost looks to Quirrel, and he holds his hands out slightly, palms down, and asks, “May I speak?”

The four warriors glance at him, and the first one they spoke to steps slightly to the side and towards Quirrel, with the one who had joined them moving in a similar fashion to spread out closer to Ghost, forming an arc across the pathway.

Ketna replies, “Are you needed for translation?”

Ghost signs, “Yes, I not know sign well. Mostly I not know.”

Leslan translates, “The Little Warrior says yes, that they do not know the sign language well.” She turns to face Quirrel, and asks, “You are teaching them?”

Quirrel almost responds, then remembers his question has not been answered and he may not technically have permission to speak, so he merely nods.

After glancing back at the warrior who had said she was needed and then back at Ketna, she looks at Quirrel and says, “I find speaking while signing extremely difficult.” Looking down at Ghost, she asks, “You understand speech, I take it?”

Ghost nods.

“Good,” she says. “Then I will simply translate what you say for the rest of the group.” She looks at Quirrel and tells him, “You will need to wait to speak.”

Quirrel nods, makes a small bow, and steps back a little to stand slightly behind Ghost.

Ghost repeats their greeting, and Leslan translates for the group.

The first warrior says, “If he is allowed as a non-combatant, you would be responsible for his actions, accountable for his deeds. He must not leave your side, his nail is to be left at the gate, and you must be accompanied by a guard. What is the purpose of your visit?”

So much for it being simple larceny. They had agreed ahead of time to attempt offering to simply buy one, but neither of them expects it to work.

Ghost signs, “Honored warriors, I want purchase” —Ghost attempts to show the embedded claw— “Unsure sell, please understand I respect. I need help fight infection, need him fight go help me.”

Leslan looks a little puzzled about halfway through and thinks for a little bit before attempting to translate. “I _think_ what they are saying… ‘Honored warriors, we would like to purchase a climbing claw. We aren’t sure you want to sell us one…’,” and she lifts her claws up a little and turns back to Ghost, plaintively asks, “Am I right so far? This is harder than I expected.”

Ghost nods as Ketna hisses and steps over to her side, whispering harshly. She gives Ghost a tight nod, then whirls on Ketna and hisses at her, “ _You_ try fucking translating from a language _no one here speaks_ that mother made us _both_ learn for gods know what reason. We _both_ attended the same lessons, you _ass_ …” and continues briefly, but no longer audible to Quirrel’s hearing.

Ghost starts trembling slightly, hopefully with mirth. Perhaps they can still hear what Leslan is saying. Quirrel reaches out and gently places his hand on the back of their head; after a moment they manage to stop, and he drops his hand back to his side.

The other two warriors are watching Leslan and Ketna with what can only be described as resigned embarrassment.

With a final piercing glare at Ketna, Leslan turns back to Ghost and says, “My apologies. I shall try and finish what you said, but I may need reminding after that _interruption_. What I remember you saying after offering to purchase a claw is… actually, I found the next bit confusing, but after that you said you needed it to help fight the infection? That you need him to go fight you?”

She stops when Ghost shakes their head and signs, “No.”

She sighs, starts to speak again but is interrupted by Ketna stepping up and grabbing her arm. She pulls her back a few paces and then steps slightly in front of her, and the two hold another whispered conversation that Quirrel can’t hear, although — based on the twitches — he suspects Ghost can pick up at least some of it.

A half-minute or so later, the unnamed warrior on the left finally breaks form and steps up to the arguing pair. Putting their claw on Ketna’s arm, they lean in and whisper something. Ketna gestures angrily at Leslan, then points back at Quirrel and Ghost before poking the warrior in the chest.

The warrior responds by also pointing to Quirrel and Ghost, gestures back to the Village, waves their claw between Ketna and Leslan, and then holds their claw down and out in a placating gesture. Ketna shakes her head, brings her claw down sharply, and hisses, “This _does not concern you_.”

Lifting both claws up and backing away, the unnamed warrior steps back towards Quirrel. As they near him, they roll their eyes and give a small, resigned shrug and settle into a parade rest, implying that this may take a while. Their cohort lasts a little longer, but eventually steps slightly closer to Ghost before assuming the same pose with a defeated air.

The argument is still inaudible to Quirrel; however, it has sprouted animated arm and claw waving. Occasionally a villager will start to approach, take one look at _who_ is doing the arguing, and suddenly find something far more important to do; or so Quirrel presumes. All he sees is that a mantis will start to walk over to the commotion, stop dead, stare, look back to the village briefly, and walk away at speed. Deciding something is Someone Else’s Problem is fairly universal, in Quirrel’s experience.

Eventually someone somewhere must have reported something, because after two or three minutes of being a silent bystander, Quirrel recognizes the approach of a Someone-in-Charge as they exit one of the nearby buildings. They are tall, regal, carry a remarkably long lance, and look like they are extremely fed up.

The two warriors to each side of the argument come to ramrod-straight attention. Ghost steps slightly to the side — placing themself more directly in front of Quirrel — and makes a small bow. Following the lead of those who are aware, Quirrel bows.

No one says anything, except for the two in the extremely heated whispered argument.

Suddenly the mantis-in-charge slams the butt of their lance into the ground, then crouches and sweeps it sideways, swinging it under the legs of the arguers and unceremoniously dumping them on the ground in a pile of shrieking limbs.

Leslan is the first to untangle herself enough to recognize who had knocked them over. She goes absolutely still for a moment and then scrambles away from Ketna and kneels before the pissed-off mantis. Ketna is a bit slower on the uptake, and manages to yell, “What the _fuck_ do you—” before the dead silence catches her attention.

Quirrel hears a whispered, “Oh, _shit_!” before Ketna rolls to her knees, duplicating Leslan’s posture.

The dead silence continues.

Ketna breaks first, inhaling a breath to speak. The mantis-in-charge — Quirrel is quite sure this is one of the Lords — sidesteps the kneeling pair, walking over to stand directly in front of Ghost. Glancing briefly at Quirrel, they then address Ghost, “I see you have returned to cause trouble, Little Warrior.”

Ghost shakes their head firmly, then signs, “No, Honored Lord! I not want upset, please I sorry. Us go, sorry us upset.”

The Mantis Lord cocks her head a little, turns to look at the warrior by Quirrel and asks, “This is why Leslan was requested?”

“Yes, my Lord! We did not understand what the Little Warrior was saying, Ketna believed Leslan would be able to translate,” they said.

“I see.” Turning back to Ghost, she asks, “You have been learning from this one behind you?”

Ghost nods and signs, “Yes.”

She nods again, turns back to the warrior by Quirrel’s side and asks, “How long have these two been standing here, watching this fiasco?”

Leslan and Ketna both flinch.

“About five minutes now, I believe, my Lord.”

“You believe.”

The warrior starts to respond, but is interrupted when the Lord says, “No, I understand. Time is experienced differently when in the presence of ignominious behavior.”

Looking as if they want to be anywhere but here, the warrior nods and gives a small bow.

She turns back to Ghost and says, “You have not upset me, nor brought dishonor. There is nothing you need to apologize for. Are you able to sign your friend’s name yet?”

Ghost signs, “No.”

She looks at Quirrel and gestures with her claw, says, “Your name, friend of the Little Warrior?”

“Quirrel,” he says and makes a shallow bow.

“Quirrel. You show respect. It is appreciated in these trying times,” she says; the two kneeling mantises flinch again.

Turning back to Ghost she asks, “And you, Little Warrior, do you have a name?”

Ghost nods, then turns slightly to indicate Quirrel.

She looks back to Quirrel and then makes a small nod, so he says, “Ghost.”

She stares at him for a moment, then stares at Ghost, and then bursts out in laughter.

“Such an appropriate name for one who returns from the dead! You are a remarkable person, Warrior Ghost.”

Ghost makes a small, embarrassed bow.

“You have both suffered enough appalling behavior today.” If flinching could burrow a bug into the ground, Leslan and Ketna would be halfway up their thoraxes by now.

She looks at Quirrel and says, “Unfortunately, the rules are strict. To enter the Village unmolested, you must defeat my sisters and I in combat. To fail is death.”

Looking back at Ghost, she says, “I presume you were hoping to gain entry for your friend by claiming him under your protection?”

At their nod, she continues, “Had our warriors not previously witnessed his prowess, were he not carrying a nail with such ease, there are allowances that can be made; else we would have no way to trade or learn. Unfortunately, his abilities are known, and he cannot be recognized as a non-combatant. I am sorry.”

Ghost slumps a little, then nods. They wave their hands a little bit, turn to Quirrel and then gesture by their mouth, point to the Lord, and look plaintive.

Quirrel is fairly certain he knows what they want him to show them, so he gives them a small nod and then looks up at the Mantis Lord for permission.

“Do you understand what they mean?”

Hoping he does, he nods.

“Help them, then.”

Looking back to Ghost he says, “Ask,” and signs the same.

Ghost signs, “Thank you,” and turns back to face the Mantis Lord. “Honored Lord, I want ask please?”

With a soft laugh, she says, “You are quite polite when you stop sowing carnage. There are some that could learn much from you.” Quirrel sees the condemned flinch yet again as the Mantis Lord continues, “You may ask.”

Ghost signs again, “Honored Lord, please I want purchase” —Ghost again attempts to show the embedded claw— “Please understand I respect. Unsure Honored Lord sell me. I need help fight infection, I need him fight come help me.”

The Mantis Lord goes absolutely still, staring at Ghost.

After a long moment, she turns once again to the warrior next to Quirrel and quietly asks them, “Warrior Velstaria, am I to understand that these two honorable visitors were forced to stand by and watch — watch for _five minutes_ — as these two disgraced themselves over _a children’s learning aid_?”

Quirrel can’t tell if Velstaria is about ready to die of embarrassment or asphyxiation from trying not to laugh. Whichever it is, they manage to get out, “Yes, my Lord,” without much of a gasp; it almost sounds normal.

He suspects that the Mantis Lord knows exactly which it is, and she grants them mercy. “There should be some over in the school; bring one over for Quirrel.”

Turning back to Ghost, she says, “I gift your friend this children’s toy as an apology for the disgraceful behavior of the two children behind me.”

Facing Quirrel she adds, “It has been a privilege to meet you, Quirrel. You show poise in adversity, a rare quality. I believe that fighting you would be an honor and a challenge.”

Startled, Quirrel nods and bows deeply.

The Mantis Lord turns and looks at the two kneeling mantises. She barks a laugh and says, “Follow me, _children_ ,” and strides off.

In the silence she leaves in her wake, Quirrel looks at Ghost, who is looking at the single remaining warrior mantis.

Following Ghost’s gaze, Quirrel meets the warrior’s eyes. After a moment, the mantis glances over to where Ketna and Leslan are following in the Mantis Lord’s wake, then back to Quirrel. They comment, “That went better than I was expecting.”

“Honored Warrior,” Quirrel responds, “you have no idea.”

* * *

Velstaria returns with the ‘children’s toy’ about five minutes later. As Ghost had said, when he reaches out to accept it, the claw immediately dissolves, and he feels it sink into his hand. He manages not to startle, and Velstaria gives him a small bow. Returning the bow, and giving another to the still-nameless warrior, he and Ghost take their leave.

It takes all of Quirrel’s willpower to not start running the minute they are out of sight of the Village.

* * *

Quirrel is standing where they had stashed his backpack, staring at his hands. He can tell the claw has merged with his shell but doesn’t see a marked difference in their appearance.

Looking over to Ghost he asks, “So how do I use these?”

Ghost points to one of the nearby walls and walks over to it. Quirrel follows them over and observes as they place a hand against the wall. He sees hundreds of little almost-hooks sprout out of their hand; they look remarkably similar to what is on a spider’s foot. When they lift their hand away, they use a slight rolling motion to detach the hooks, which disappear as their hand moves away from the wall.

“Do you have to do anything to make those show up?” he asks.

They shrug and think a moment, then sign “Think want up wait down.”

“You just decide you want to not fall off the wall, and they show up?” he verifies.

Ghost nods.

Quirrel places his hand on the wall, and nothing happens. Puzzled, he looks at Ghost.

Pulling out the slate, Ghost writes, I had to think about it at first, jumping against a wall and deciding you want to stick might be easier.

“I see.”

Contemplating the wall, Quirrel hops up and tries to grab it. His palms tickle a little, but nothing happens. He glares at his hands.

He looks down at Ghost when he feels a tap on his leg. They are holding up the slate, which reads, Try doing a jump you have to commit to, not just a hop. Maybe one of your dashing jumps?

He nods, then backs up some and with a rush of soul, leaps high up the wall.

Nothing happens at first, but as he is starting to fall he feels his hands catch on the wall. Instead of falling, he is now sliding down the wall; not as slowly as Ghost does, but it is most definitely not a freefall.

When he is a little way from the ground, he tries pulling one hand away, but it is stuck. Rolling it in the same fashion Ghost had releases it, and he starts sliding faster.

Reaching the ground, he looks over at Ghost and grins.

They have put the slate away and make a little hop and clap their hands. Signing, “See,” they jump against the wall and grab it with their hands. They start sliding down, but brace their feet under them and push up, jumping off of the wall and then grabbing it again once they are up higher. They repeat this to the top of the wall, then push out and drop all the way back down, landing in a crouch. After a moment, they stand back up and look at him.

Quirrel glances up to the top of the wall, then back down and asks, “I’ve seen you pause like that before after landing, does that happen after the longer falls, or is it something else?”

Ghost holds up one finger, and Quirrel sighs. Ghost steps over and gently rubs his leg, then signs “I say ok, not upset.”

Shaking his head, Quirrel places a hand on their head and gently rubs with his thumb. “I know, but it upsets me. I hadn’t realized how _ingrained_ the habit is.”

Ghost steps a little closer and leans their head against his hip, a horn resting against his back. He shifts his hand up a little and rubs his thumb against the base of the other horn, pulling them in.

He steps back after a moment, looking up at the wall again. He then asks Ghost, “Do they sprout out of your feet as well, or—” and stops with a little shake of his head.

Ghost nods, then lifts one of their legs and wiggles it a bit.

Quirrel nods, takes a deep breath, and jumps at the wall again. It takes a little longer, but he feels the catch as the hairs sprout again, then brings his feet up and feels them catch as well. His slide down the wall slows considerably.

Having reached the ground again, he backs up and jumps up against the wall, this time bringing his feet up as well as grabbing with his hands; the catch is nearly immediate. After a moment, he pushes off with his feet to jump up and instead shoots out from the wall in an arc.

With a shout he twists around and manages to land on his feet and tumbles over his shoulder to absorb the landing.

Ghost is suddenly at his side, patting his back.

“No, no, I’m fine. There is obviously a learning curve. I just didn’t think. I pushed out like I would to jump up, but angled against the wall that way, it pushed me out and not up.”

Standing back up, he brushes the back of their head briefly and then walks back towards the wall. “I just need to practice, is all.”

* * *

It takes about an hour for Quirrel to feel like he has a decent grasp on what he is doing. He is far from the grace that Ghost shows when using the claws, but they have a couple of weeks of head start on him. He is now sitting, using his backpack as a backrest instead. Ghost is in his lap and they are once again reviewing the map. They had left the upper Mantis Village to the east but are still within their territory. There is no truly direct path back into the City of Tears from here; they either need to go up and to the south to reach the City Gates, or down and to the south into the Royal Waterways. North is pretty much a dead end, as far as Ghost’s map shows, although there are some incomplete areas that might lead out; however, Ghost hasn’t found anything in the City of Tears that leads in that direction.

On the other hand, the City is an absolute warren of levels, paths, streets, airways, and hidden paths. Quirrel figures you could dig through the City for _years_ and not find everything if you don’t have help.

Ghost traces a path up and south to the City’s main entrance from where they are.

“I tried that way in a while back — the gates were closed, and I couldn’t find a way around. Have you somehow opened them?” he asks.

Ghost nods, then wobbles their hand. Reaching back over the map, they use a finger and make an ‘x’ motion over the actual entryway, but then move their finger back and trace a path up and over the top, through an unfilled area of the map. After tracing, they pause a moment, and then put their finger back at the beginning of where they had indicated the bypass and again pause. Tapping it twice, they sign, “Unsure I go.”

Quirrel asks, “There is a path around the gate, but you aren’t sure you can get into it from this side?”

Ghost nods, then sighs and leans back into him for a moment before shifting sideways a bit. They throw an arm around his front and melt into him, head on his chest and chin on the top of his belly. With a tiny shudder, their other arm comes up around his back some, and then they sigh again and just sit there.

Quirrel wraps his arms around them, quietly asks, “Everything ok?”

They nod, and he follows up with, “Just want to cuddle for a few?”

Ghost nods again, and he smiles as he says, “I like that idea very much.”

* * *

It takes most of the rest of the day to return to the City gates. Standing in front of the statue before the closed gates, Quirrel feels a deep sense of familiarity as he looks at the figure.

Speaking slowly, he tells Ghost, “I think… I think I knew this bug? It feels… I get a sense I knew them.”

They are staring at him, head cocked a bit. They look back at the statue, then pull their slate out and write, If I understand correctly, this is one of the Five Knights. You knew this one?

“Truly? Intriguing. I can’t say that I know whether that is true. I just… I feel like I _knew_ him. As if I can hear his soft laughter, just… it’s not… I can’t…”

Quirrel makes a defeated sigh. “The memory isn’t there now.” Staring at the statue — his hands unconsciously forming fists — he growls, “I _hate_ this, I hate _being_ this way. It is so _frustrating_!”

He feels Ghost take one of his fists in both of their hands, and they start massaging it. Another sigh, and he forces himself to relax, and takes one of their hands in his.

“I know, and you are right. Too much too fast is definitely bad for my health. But I think I am allowed to be aggravated at the situation, yes?”

Ghost sighs, briefly squeezes his hand, and nods.

Without letting go of his hand, they step back a little and look up, searching. Pulling him along, they finally find the hole in the ceiling and then look around for a way to get to it. Quirrel knows he could make the leap, but neither of them sees an effective way for Ghost to make it.

“If you sit on my backpack and hold on, I should be able to carry you up with me when I leap. Weight does affect what I can do, but you don’t weigh much, and I have already been adjusting for the backpack. Is that agreeable?” he asks.

Ghost nods, and he crouches down for them to hop up. They settle in, then briefly lean forward and drape themself over his head, almost tumbling over the front. Laughing, he captures their head in his hands and holds them in place. They place their hands on top of his head and push themself up, their head leaving his hands. He feels them pat him twice through his kerchief, and he nods.

He asks, “Ready to go?”

They shift a little, and when they pat him twice, he leaps up into the tunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever stood there while watching someone make an absolute ass of themself? It is _excruciating_ , and feels like the world will never end.
> 
> Ketna and Leslan survive, but perhaps wish they didn’t.
> 
> When you spend forever guarding against the mindless infected and rarely have invaders who can talk and respond coherently, your guarding force tends to lose its ability to retain poise under pressure.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I firmly believe that the challenge fight against the Mantis Lords isn’t to a true defeat of the Lords. That would be a shitty way to run your tribe, because it would mean that no one could come in for any reason unless they were capable of overpowering your leaders. I think that the Lords are definitely measuring you up, seeing what they are letting into the village, and are perfectly willing to murder you for the privilege. But as you see in this story, I am giving another path for gaining entry — however, it requires being vouched for.
> 
> I am also on the fence about the “to death” being strictly true. I could see it being something they say, but only carry through with when they perceive that someone is a threat. Otherwise, they beat the shit out of you and depending on your attitude they may or may not kill you. I just don’t see it as a sustainable practice in non-Infection times.
> 
> My version of the Mantis Claw will shed during a molt, so Quirrel doesn’t have this ability forever. Nor will Ghost, once they figure out how to trigger body growth.


	10. All I Needed Was Some Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost has a stunningly obvious revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> I feel the need to at least justify some of my mangling of bug physiology; I am containing it to the end notes for now, but I _have_ thought it out and I am attempting internal consistency. I have notes and everything!
> 
> * * *
> 
> This chapter has the aftermath of a _Panic Attack_ but doesn’t actually show it.  
> 

#### Ghost

* * *

Quirrel’s mood was off the rest of the evening after his outburst of frustration in front of the statue at the City gates. Ghost hasn’t ever seen Quirrel snippy before; it turns out he falls into biting sarcasm when pissy. He seems calmer this morning, though.

They had traveled about an hour into the City before holing up in a small apartment for the night. They are now digging through it, looking for anything worth scavenging. Ghost hasn’t spent much time trying to loot before, since their needs are fairly basic. Quirrel is very efficient as he sorts through cabinets and rooms. He admits that his natural tendencies are towards keeping far more than he should, and that he has to semi-regularly pare down what he has accumulated into his backpack over time. He chuckles as he warns them that they need to not just blindly accept anything he hands them, or they may end up discovering that they do have a limit to how much they can carry.

It is an interesting thought, but they decide not to tell him that they have tried testing it out and got bored before they found a limit. If he is freely admitting that he keeps too many things, now doesn’t seem the time to enable the behavior.

The kitchen does have a few items that they decide to take. Quirrel starts collecting a couple of pots and pans after asking if they have any ‘back home,’ and they tell him no. His response is that his little kit isn’t set up for cooking for two, and so they would need some that were larger capacity. Ghost is still feeling a warm glow from that casual inclusion in his plans.

They also find some bedding that has been stored in a closet, and while it smells odd it is in good condition and not completely coated in dust — they plan to swap it out for the curtains. Quirrel mentions that if they could find where the overflow from the springs goes, they can use that for washing, and wouldn’t have to wait for the springs to clear.

They spend the rest of the day making their way across the City of Tears in a similar fashion, choosing homes at random to break into and search. As it gets close to time to sleep again, they have only made it about a third of the way through the city in their meanderings, so they simply stop at the last house they ransack.

* * *

They repeat the same meandering pattern of wandering through the wreckage of the city the next day, continuing the search for painkillers and other less common sundries, continuing to learn how to travel together.

When they reach the end of the day, they are in the upper reaches of the city towers, across the memorial plaza from where the Watcher observed and protected the city. The view is breathtaking, the other side of the City of Tears lost into the rain.

This time they take a little more time choosing one of the opulent apartments to rest in, using a standard that neither of them have ever been able to indulge in while wandering: the gloriously luxurious beds. Groaning as he sinks into the pillowy depths, Quirrel asks them plaintively if there is any way they can stuff it in and carry it back.

Ghost wishes they could, but they can’t make it fit.

* * *

Ghost wakes up breathing hard and laying in the middle of the floor, Quirrel crouching next to them. His mask is missing, his right hand is hovering by their left shoulder, and he looks ready to spring away. Their head hurts.

“Ghost? Are you awake now?” he asks, voice tense.

They nod, confused.

Quirrel slumps, dropping to the floor and letting his hand fall; it lands across their chest and he gently grips their shoulder. They grab his hand and hold on, trying to orient themself.

“I think you got tangled in your bedding again,” he says quietly, and starts to massage their shoulder. “I woke up when you started thrashing around, but I couldn’t tell if you were having a nightmare or a panic attack. It doesn’t really matter either way — the bedding lost the battle.”

Ghost shudders. They know better, they shouldn’t sleep where they can get wrapped up in the bedding. But the bed had been so _soft_. Squeezing Quirrel’s hand hard, they just lay there. Quirrel may be tired of weeping, but sometimes they wish they cried tears. They aren’t sure whether it makes a practical difference or not, however just laying here and weeping with no external evidence of the fact _hurts_.

Quirrel must pick up on _something_ , because he scoots over and then lays down next to them, continuing to rub their shoulder. He nestles his face into the side of theirs, his breathing soft against their shoulder, and something inside breaks loose into heaving sobs.

He is murmuring to them, but they can’t hear it; not really. It doesn’t matter though, because he is _here_ and trying to _help_ and they can’t stop crying. They are confused, everything is falling apart, they can’t stop crying, and Quirrel is _here_ ; they wrap their arms around his wrist and hold on as tight as they can.

* * *

Ghost calms down eventually, listening to Quirrel. He switched from talking to singing softly at some point. He has a nice voice, light and high. They like it; they wonder if they can get him to sing again, without the breakdown.

They relax their arms a bit, loosening their death-grip around his wrist. He acknowledges this by nuzzling in a little, continuing his quiet song; they are glad. They listen and focus on breathing exercises. Even if they don’t need to breathe, the action is soothing — centering them.

When he finishes his song, he doesn’t start another. His breath is a soft slow rhythm against their shoulder, his fingers lightly massaging their other shoulder, soothing. Safe. They drift off to sleep.

* * *

When they wake up again, Quirrel has shifted around some. He has a blanket around himself, and a couple of pillows at his back. He dug out a small blanket for them from somewhere, and it’s laying over them. He is nuzzled against them again, his face against the side of theirs; although it is his arm across their middle now, his hand up and by their horn instead, cupping it. He has managed to achieve a full-on cuddle with barely any body contact, and something inside of them melts.

“You awake?” he asks them, voice soft, and gently rubs their horn with his thumb.

Ghost nods, presses against his face. They bring their arms up and hold his through the blanket, where it lays across them.

“Mmhm,” and he nuzzles back, shifting closer and curling around them, still not touching but enclosing them in his presence.

They lay that way for a long while, gently rubbing his arm. Being surrounded by him is… _not_ scary, _not_ terrifying, _not_ distressing. It is _unnerving_ , but it is also relaxing, calming, and leaves them full of warmth and happiness. They suppose this is what he meant, the difference between how they feel now and how they feel when they think about the kisses. The idea of those still terrifies them in a thrilling fashion, but if this feeling they are having right now is an example of what those _should_ inspire? He’s right, they aren’t there yet. But they understand better now, know where they should be going. They are a little less petrified to go there, knowing this is how it should feel.

Quirrel nuzzles them again, ducks his head down and they feel is breath on their shoulder briefly before he turns his head and watches where their hands are rubbing his arm from under the blanket. He quietly asks, “Do you remember much about last night?”

Ghost is absolutely positive he just diverted himself from one of those kisses. It was smooth, and they wouldn’t have even noticed if they hadn’t just been thinking about it. How often is he doing that? Thinking back over the last day or two, they suspect it is a lot, especially if he is changing the motion into something natural, such as bumping his mask into their horn. How would it feel, to be reminded throughout the day of how they feel right now? They think that would be the _opposite_ of terrifying. In fact, they—

Quirrel tilts his face back up, presses it into the side of their head a little, and rubs their horn with his thumb. “Ghost?”

Right, he had asked a question. To be truthful, they suppose they don’t. They remember him waking them up — or bringing them back to _awareness_ , at least. They remember what happened while they were awake, after whatever had happened — but obviously they fell asleep again in there somewhere.

They sigh, then shrug. The answer isn’t yes _or_ no, but their hands are buried under blanket and Quirrel, and they don’t want to change that.

He angles his head up as if to kiss the base of their horn, then shifts and rubs it with his cheek. “That’s _so_ informative,” he chuckles. “I’ll break it apart then. Do you remember what terrified you so badly, be it a nightmare or something else?”

It’s like he doesn’t want to remove the impulse of brushing small affectionate kisses when he feels the urge, and so he is just… doing something else. In a way that they are comfortable with, unobtrusively. If they had been uncomfortable with his diverted affections, would he do something different? They suspect he would, and briefly wonder what that would have been.

They need to keep answering his questions though, or he will worry, so they shake their head. They don’t. Until they woke up on the floor, they have no clue what was going on.

With a small sigh, he briefly tucks his face back against the side of theirs, and then turns a bit, watching their hands knead against his arm from under the blanket.

“Do you remember destroying your bed?”

Ghost shakes their head again; they definitely don’t remember doing that.

He pauses, starts rubbing their horn again. They get a sinking feeling about what he is going to ask next.

“Ah, you’ve tensed up.” Sighing again, he says, “I am guessing you aren’t wrong in what you are thinking I’m going to ask next, but it also answers my question about whether or not you recall it. Yes, you attacked me; no, it wasn’t unprovoked. I made a mistake and tried to disarm you. Yes, I got hurt; no, it wasn’t serious. No, I won’t make that mistake again.”

This is why they can’t have nice things, why they don’t deserve to be around—

“Shhh, stop — don’t; love, _don’t_. I am capable, I _made a choice_ , I knew the risks.”

What the fuck, is he a mind-reader now?

“I made that choice,” this time turning his face back into the side of their head. “You would have been angry,” and his voice drops to a whisper, “ _so very angry_ , if I didn’t tell you what had happened.”

Ghost manages to nod, because he is right.

“Please don’t make the mistake of trying to bear the responsibility for my choices; it isn’t fair to either of us.” He turns his head back, looking at where their hands have stilled on his arm; they are clenching it, and they try to relax.

They feel like crying again, but nod.

“Oh, _Ghost_ , life is full of horrible things. _You aren’t one of them_. I can keep myself safe; you know this — you _know_ this. It was distressing to see you that way, I wanted to _help_. But I know you would have been _fine_ if I had just left the room, let you work through it.” Turning his face back into the side of theirs, pulling them in, he says, “I expect I would have been fine if I had even just stayed back, out of the way. I _tried_ , but it is hard to watch someone you…” His breath hitches as he pauses, then continues, “…watch someone you love be scared, afraid, and lost. Even if you know…” Another little hiccup, and he continues, “…even if you know they have handled it alone so many times, so _damn_ many times it makes your heart _break_ , I just… I had to _try_.” Whispering, repeats, “I _had_ to try.”

Losing the battle against crying, they admit defeat on the other fronts as well and hitch themself over onto their side, facing Quirrel. Shuddering with sobs, they wriggle their arms out from under the blanket and reach up to start brushing his cheeks with their hands, seeking contact, wanting comfort.

“ _Ghost_ ,” he whispers, then ducks his head and burrows his face into their body. Their hands shift up to the top of his head as he ducks, one of his antennae brushing the side of their face. His arm shifts and he places his hand on the back of their head, pulling them tight against him and holding them there as they cry.

* * *

It takes longer for Ghost to calm down this time. Quirrel starts humming songs at some point, and it gives them something to focus on. That allows them to calm enough to get a handle on breathing exercises again, and they can finally fall back into the meditation and calming routines.

In a daze, they start petting Quirrel’s head, gentle strokes from just behind his antennae towards his back.

He still isn’t wearing his mask. They do vaguely recall him taking it off as he crawled into his bed, but they had been falling asleep fast and hadn’t processed that fact. They wonder what the difference is; it makes sense to sleep with it on when they are traveling, but he hadn’t taken it off at night back at their room. He hadn’t really spent much time there, though; maybe he has relaxed, maybe it’s something else. Masks are fairly unique to Hallownest; they don’t know the etiquette, the customs.

How do masks work? They don’t seem to use ties to hold them place; until they had been around Quirrel for a while, they hadn’t even realized that they were separate from a bug’s face. They hadn’t really thought about it at all — had assumed they were fused or something.

He isn’t wearing his kerchief either; however, from what they have seen this is normal when he sleeps. They wonder what he would do if they leaned over and kissed his head, or antennae. They won’t, because they recognize the basic unfairness of the action, but they still wonder. He’s tucked the antenna near the floor back, but the upper one is moving around, brushing their face or dropping down to their shoulder, tapping gently.

How would they kiss? Their mouth is very different from other bugs’. It is another item on the list of creepy things that make up their body. Another thing they don’t let others see, although now that they think about it, they haven’t been particularly careful the last few days and Quirrel hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t reacted at all, if he has seen it while they eat the little bits they have. He’s a decent cook, and like anything else they show interest in, he tells them what he is doing and why. A natural teacher. He would no doubt be willing to teach—

Quirrel pulls back a little, looks up at them, moves his hand from the back of their head to the side of their face, cupping it and rubbing his thumb under their eye. Smiles at them, eyes warm. Makes a small movement, a scarcely detectable pull against their face, before shifting his hand back up towards their horn and then matching the petting motions they are making.

They scootch down a little, wanting to see his face better. He chuckles as he recognizes their curiosity and drops his arm to accommodate them, draping it across their side instead, allowing them freedom of movement; his hand idly resting by their neck.

Taking it as tacit permission, they put their hand along his temple just back from his eye, barely touching. His face is broad, the top of his head plated in the same darker blue-grey that his back is. His eyes are wide-set, smaller than the holes in his mask, and wouldn’t be quite centered in those holes — they would be shifted to the outside edges a tad. Not by _much_ , but enough to be noticeable now that his mask is off. His eyes are segmented and a deep brown that is nearly black, without the iridescence that some bugs have. The bases of his antennae are set between his eyes, almost touching the inside edge and slightly below center. Wearing a mask must push them back, although they look fully articulated. He must have noticed them focus on them somehow, and with a snicker swings them forward and taps around their face, and it tickles.

With a small huff they bring a hand up, wanting to touch, and pause to let him decide if it’s ok — they don’t know how sensitive they are. He rotates one over to their hand — resting it against their palm — and quietly says, “Just don’t tug or pinch, it should be fine. They are sensitive to vibrations, touch, and odor to an extent.”

Ghost nods, then lets go for a moment so they can hitch themself back over, horn on the other side again so they face up slightly. Reaching up again, they touch and then gently grasp, looking. They can feel him watching them, and his hand is once again across their abdomen and thighs, a gentle weight. His thumb is idly rubbing their side; their blanket is all askew and while his hand is on the blanket, his thumb isn’t.

His antennae are segmented, with tiny hairs on the end segments, particularly the last two. They run their hand up the side, then pause before moving to touch the last segments, where all the little hairs are.

“Go ahead,” he says.

The hairs are extremely fine, much softer than what is on their body, so thin as to barely be visible. They carefully cup their hand around behind it, and then slowly draw it towards their eyes — they don’t quite know how far they can bend, and in what directions. Just before where they intended to, he quietly tells them to stop, so they do, then back off a little bit just in case. The hairs are a very light grey, and shimmer just a touch; they are pretty. With their thumb they pet lightly in the direction the hairs are growing, feeling how delicate they are.

They let go again and lift themself slightly to turn back so they are looking at him again; sometimes their horns are annoying. He is smiling again, and they aren’t sure they can handle it, so they go back to investigating his face.

He has two little stubs of antennae just below the main ones, inset a little, and they bring their hand up and place it next to one, rest their thumb just below its base.

“Vestigial, they don’t do anything but get caught on stuff I don’t want them to,” he grumps.

They quiver a little, laughing, and gently feel it with their thumb; he scoffs, “Your face is smooth, nothing to snag!”

Shaking with laughter, they reach up and pat the base of one of their horns, then one of the tiny antennae.

Snickering, he responds, “I _suppose_.” He glances up and comments, “They are proud and graceful as they catch on everything, at least.”

With a snort, they pat the tiny antennae again; they think they’re cute, but don’t have the words for it without the slate and don’t want to interrupt the cozy mood. Quirrel shakes his head a little.

They move their hand to one of the soft plates on his lower cheek, gently rub it with their thumb, then stop and drop their hand; they may not know much, but they _do_ know that putting their hands on his mandibles, stroking them, would likely be torture for him and a cruel way to repay his willingness to let them explore.

So they look for a little while; he has a larger set of outer mandibles, and a smaller inner pair, and underneath a maxilliped forms his chin. They bring their hand up, touch his cheek again, and then rest it by his eye. They must have not been quite careful enough; his breathing is uneven. He didn’t say anything, but they still pull back a little and sign, “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, you did good. I had planned to stop you if you started… well, if you touched my mandibles.” He chuckles, a little shaky, “I try to recognize my limits. I just didn’t expect to react to the intensity of your gaze once you stopped touching — you can be very… _intent_.” He brings his hand up, brushes his knuckles against their cheek, and then rests it on their head just behind their horn. “You are also quite observant when you learn what to look for. You stopped when you needed to; thank you.”

Ghost nods, signs “Thank you.”

They decide to tackle the other issue they have been ignoring, as a distraction, so they sign, “Ask, I see I fight you?”

Quirrel sighs, “I think I was happier with the other kind of stress; it’s more enjoyable.”

Ghost snorts and signs, “I tell you different tell,” then shrugs. “I understand you respect I unsure. You tell not kiss, you not kiss me. You touch, think kiss. I not know, now I know.”

Quirrel has gone completely still, staring at them; barely breathing.

Ghost reaches forward, touches his temple.

He inhales and pauses, then says, “I thought you recognized what I was doing.” He shakes his head and looks down. “I… gods. I keep making assumptions.”

When they tap the side of his head he looks up. They sign, “I not ask stop. I ok you touch, not kiss. You ok. You respect me, you wait, you think kiss, I ok.” Reaching forward, they duplicate his earlier caress, putting their hand on the side of his face and gently rubbing their thumb under his eye. He shivers a little, and they pull back, signing again, “You ask touch, I tell ok. You understand? I ok. Stop worry. Please? Stop worry.”

With another sigh he nods and says, “I shall try.”

They nod, then sign, “Please, me see fight you.”

He makes a tiny nod, then sits up. “This is how you sign ‘hurt,’ and this is ‘injury.’”

Sitting up, they repeat the signs.

“I would like to state in my defense that I did _succeed_ in disarming you, I just didn’t do it without injury,” he says.

They are shocked — that isn’t something that has happened more than once or twice.

Quirrel picks up on it and laughs with a small smile. “It was not easy! You are _fast_ and know how to use your size very effectively. I suspect I got a little lucky as well.” He sits up a little straighter, leans to the left and turns, showing them his right side. “Your nail caught me low, just above my last segment. Knocked out some of the shell from the ridge and cut in a little bit. I doubt it will need a patch, but I will need to trim the edges so they don’t snag. It did bleed, and I bandaged it while you were sleeping.”

They see the bandage, stuck on haphazardly and sticking out oddly. He is meant to flex front to back, twisting side to side is harder; he probably couldn’t get to it very well. There is pale blue where it has bled through some. They wrap their arms tightly around their middle, make a sharp nod. They look back at his face, feeling mildly sick.

He sits back up and shakes his head a little. “Neither of us are going to listen to the other when we say ‘don’t worry,’ are we?” he asks.

Sagging a little, they shake their head.

“I also ended up twisting my right wrist a little when I grabbed your arm to roll and throw you.” He grins sardonically, “How does your head feel, by the way?”

Startled, they sit up straight again. He had managed to (mostly) dodge, grab, disarm, _and_ throw them? Granted, they didn’t often fight in situations where their opponent was going for disarming or neutralizing them, but they had run across it often enough that they felt comfortable being surprised that he succeeded — it was a first. Usually, their opponent had to hurt them badly enough that they weren’t responding well or were unconscious in order to _grab_ them — the dash had made it even more difficult. They aren’t sure how much being out of it affects their abilities, but _still_.

“I don’t think I could have done it if you were fully aware,” he says.

Ghost nods vaguely, unsure of how to respond.

Softly, he says, “I was serious about your head. In attempting to dodge your nail, the grab and roll was harsher than I meant it to be. It did bring you to awareness, but you landed hard.”

They shake their head, sign, “Hurt stop, not hurt now, I ok.”

“I am glad to hear that,” he sighs.

Quirrel leans forward, places his right hand along the side of their face and then gently brushes his fingers down the side. He drops it down in front of them and holds it open, palm up, in front of them. They look at it for a few moments, then unpeel their arms from around their middle and grasp the outside edge of it with their left hand. They lean over and reach forward with their right hand and wrap their fingers around his wrist. There aren’t any outward signs of it being injured, but in shell-covered areas there usually aren’t unless something cracks.

He curls his fingers around their arm, pulls lightly as he lays back down. Letting go as they shift a little, he reaches out and places his hand behind their back, encouraging them to lay back down.

“We both still need some sleep,” he murmurs. “Lay with me and rest, we can sort out the rest when we wake up.”

Ghost nods and lays down again, head tilted so they can see him.

Quirrel curls in to gently rub his forehead against theirs, and hums a contented little sigh. His eyes are right in front of theirs now. They know that for most bugs, once something gets too close it goes out of focus. For them, it’s just _closer_ , so they can see it bigger. It’s bewildering to see his eyes this closely.

His hand is on the side of their head again, fingers gently curled around their horn, thumb slowly rubbing back and forth on their cheek. He asks, “Do you prefer sleeping on your side this way, or on your back?”

Position doesn’t matter much for them when they sleep, just potential obstructions. Pillows work because they go flying when they startle. Small blankets work for the same reason. Quirrel… they shake their head and shrug. Right now, looking at his eyes, his sleepy contentment, is too much. They shift, shuffling onto their back.

Reaching across them, he pulls the little blanket back over them and leaves it loose. He turns over and grabs the blanket he had been using earlier and the small pillow. He tucks the pillow by their head, slightly under the horn on his far side. Turning back again, he pulls the other two pillows next to him, one under his head, the other near the middle of his back, and then throws the blanket over himself. He curls back around them, like he had been earlier. His arm is lightly across their middle, his hand barely touching their face, their horn, and he once again tucks his forehead against the side of their face.

After a pause, he dips his head down again — like he had earlier — and they feel a light breath on their shoulder. He pauses again, then tilts his face back up and nuzzles against their cheek.

“Is it ok if I lay here, sleep by you? Or will it be too much, too confining?” he asks quietly.

Ghost thinks for a moment; wonders if he had been more obvious about the almost-kiss on purpose. Likely yes.

“ _Dammit_ ,” he groans, then shakes his head as they huff a little laugh.

They nod, pause, and then shake their head.

They consider all of the other gestures he has been making, connecting those gestures with what he said earlier — and what he has been surrounding them with for days finally comes together.

“Goodnight, Ghost. Sleep well.”

Stunned, they just nod.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked with [@mushroomminded](https://mushroomminded.tumblr.com/) to get a visual reference for what I am thinking Quirrel looks like under his mask; you can see what she made for me [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/793908178353389573/797996098744614932/maskless_quirrel.png)! I love it; she is very talented! And _fast_ ; damn.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I apologize if my mangling of pillbug physiology is bothersome, but there are so many interactions that I personally need to humanize for me to connect, and while there are a number that I can adapt and/or pretend make sense — e.g., I have no issue with saying Quirrel smiles, because mandibles are plenty movable, and body language plays into it such that ‘smile’ can be sold as a transliteration easily enough — there are other things that not having the humanized versions just dumped me out of the story, personally. A couple of quick examples that I’m sure have been picked up on are tears and Quirrel being endothermic instead of ectothermic (although there _are_ endothermic insects, even if isopods aren’t insects… anyhow).
> 
> I promise you that I did a lot of research and have tried to incorporate as many of the facets of _Armadillidium vulgare_ or other isopod biology as I could — because isopods are fucking _cool_ — but ultimately, I am telling a story about bugs that are walking upright, talking, and have magic, so I’ll be damned if I let little things like real-world _facts_ get in my way. xD
> 
> If there is some interest in me gathering those notes into something coherent and putting them out there, I’m willing to do that and would put them into the other work in this series (although I’d end up renaming it and making it more all-purpose). But if no one else is at least moderately interested, I’m not likely to be motivated. :-p
> 
> Oh, and [here are](https://entnemdept.ufl.edu/insectid/images/11_NOV_pillbug-&-babies---Buss.jpg) a [couple of](https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4098/4884876265_4ab2d14bd3_b.jpg) [images of](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/23/de/45/23de4557a4a13264f1c8fc55d80a92bd.jpg) [baby isopods](https://bugguide.net/images/raw/JRX/QFR/JRXQFRQQFRQQCRQQFR60TRW0DRMQ1RHQVR3KTQFKDR60CQ80YQ40FQJKARRQ3RP03RP0TQJKYQN0Z0.jpg) OMG. Mama can’t stand up due to the cute in that last one. xD
> 
> * * *
> 
> You may or may not have noticed that I’ve flagged the work as completing at Chapter 12. The story is definitely not going to be done! I am pretty sure that is obvious. But this particular setup story arc is ‘done’ as it is the _why_ of the relationship. There are some things where I want to go back and edit within this story to flesh out/more explicitly show the fact that for the purpose of my story, the in-game interactions between Ghost and Quirrel were more in-depth. I did imply that, but in retrospect I should make that more obvious.
> 
> The other thing I hope to achieve by starting another work will be that I can fix some of the pacing issues I am having. Suddenly trying to make the days flow faster here — which I did a little in this chapter — really stands out and makes the feel and flow of this choppy. I don’t want to do that again _here_ , but if I’m writing and attempting to cover the game plus after, I will either be writing for the next six years, or I need to step it up. Having issues like this is absolutely no surprise to me, having never written before.
> 
> Plus, I have also run out of lyrics to use from the songs I chose for Ghost and Quirrel, so I need to find new songs.
> 
> * * *
> 
> For better or for worse, I am now at the end of planned plus excess vacation time I had to use/burn prior to my reset date of January 17th. This means I am no longer able to do this all day in a haze of hyper-fixation. Which also means that my update schedule will end up more irregular, I am certain. If it _doesn’t_ , someone needs to come beat me over the head with a stick, because it means I have chosen to forgo sleep.
> 
> This is a relief to my beta/editor, because their comment the other day was “I didn’t sign up for you to go so _fast_.” I mean, I had warned them, but they seem to have thought that since I’m their mom I would run into a mental logjam similar to theirs when it came to getting words out of my head.
> 
> Um. Surprise?


	11. But You Brought a Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new beginning for Ghost & Quirrel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> No particular chapter warnings beyond discusions of relationships.  
>   
> 

#### Ghost

* * *

It takes Ghost a very long time to fall back asleep. They know Quirrel doesn’t fall asleep right away either, although he stays quiet. Eventually there is a subtle shift in how he is laying there as he drifts off, and his breathing slows even more.

They aren’t panicking. Their mind is racing in circles, running back and forth over the same thoughts again and again — which is similar — and they feel shaky and jittery — which is also similar — and they want to get up and _run_ — which is again quite similar — and… but it isn’t the _same_ for all that it is _similar_.

Ghost lays there and rests — very deliberately _not panicking_ — until they fall asleep so that they can deal with things tomorrow.

* * *

For the first time in the ten days since stumbling away from the Blue Lake, Quirrel wakes up before they do. They hadn’t noticed him get up, but they hear him moving about the room and sit up.

He notices their movement and turns to greet them with a smile. “Good morning, Ghost. I’m glad you made it back to sleep — I was worried you wouldn’t when it was taking you so long. I’ve already had some breakfast; are you hungry?”

When they shake their head, he walks over to sit in front of them. His mask is back on. He briefly touches their shoulder, then asks, “Did you sleep better that last time?”

Ghost nods. It may have taken them forever to get there, but they did sleep well.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says.

“You?” they sign.

“I slept well.”

“Happy.”

Quirrel reaches forward again and touches the side of their head. “Are we headed back home today?”

Ghost nods.

“I think that’s a good plan. I can finish getting reorganized, and we can hash out a more coherent plan for what needs to happen next. Find a way for me to help, somehow.” He sighs, looks at his hands briefly, and adds, “If you will have me, let me help. I’d like to.”

There isn’t any doubt in their mind on that, so they nod firmly. Everything _else_ has them confused as fuck, but they know they want him to stay, to be with them. Maybe he can make some sense of what they have been learning. Just because they _think_ they know what the hell is up doesn’t necessarily mean they are _right_. And even if they are, having someone else thinking about how to find a solution beyond them walking into that temple and doing whatever it is they need to do to contain the infection increases the odds of finding that answer. A slim increase in the odds is greater than a zero increase in the odds. They may not have enough data to do the calculations — statistics are a fucking _pain_ in the _ass_ and result in stagshit answers if you forget to account for something — but anything times zero is zero.

They sign, “I tell you I think I know infection. You tell me you think you understand infection. Maybe you understand infection different. Us think, maybe different understand? You help me think?”

“Just to verify,” he says, “you want to go over what you have learned about the infection with me, to see if it meshes with what I know about the infection and see if there are gaps we can fill in?”

Ghost nods.

Quirrel looks down at his hands again, suddenly clenches them. “I don’t remember much.” He tenses up, “I’m not sure—”

Ghost smacks his knee, and his head snaps up.

“ **Stop**! You need stop. Please. You memory come later. I respect you think, respect you understand. I need you think, understand, know. Memory come later, need you come think now,” they sign firmly.

“I…” he pauses, starts to look down again but stops himself. “How can I help if I don’t _remember_?”

They are getting annoyed at his fixation. “You not **listen** me!”

Pausing to poke his knee again, they continue, “I tell you I know, think, you listen! You help me think, you help me understand. Us think now.” They poke his knee again, for emphasis. “You need **stop** not respect you. You memory come later, you tell me, I listen, us think, us understand. You need see I respect you think now, please understand!”

Quirrel is just staring at them now. They understand why, at least a little. Perhaps it is a mercy that they have absolutely no memory of their time here previously, rather than a lacework that is more holes than memory. Sad and feeling helpless, they throw up their hands in frustration and get to their feet.

He inhales as they stand and starts to say something. They interrupt by moving into his space, and just _look_ at him for a moment before stepping forward and grabbing him in a tight hug, wrapping their arms around his neck.

It takes a long moment, but he wraps his arms loosely around them, and after a pause turns his head into the side of theirs.

Another extended silence, and then he inhales deeply, shuddering. He whispers, “I feel useless.”

Ghost reflexively tightens their hug, but he continues, “I know that isn’t true — I _do_ — but knowing something isn’t the same as believing it. Maybe if I could figure out how to handle being in the Archives, I could search—”

Shaking their head violently, Ghost steps back and signs, “No no no!”

Quirrel starts, “But that is—” and stops when Ghost pulls out the slate. They are sorely tempted to wallop him over his stubborn head with it.

Turning around and sitting in his lap they write, “No going back to the Archives. The answer wasn’t there 300 years ago, why would it be there now? No. It is not worth it.”

“…you make a valid point, but I don’t think that we should fully dismiss the fact that there may be information there we can use,” he says.

They nod, then write, “Possibly, but it isn’t worth your mind, your life.”

Quirrel’s arms suddenly snake around their middle, under their arms, under the slate, and he is squeezing them hard. In a fierce whisper he asks them, “But what if it might save _yours_?”

Sagging a little, they shrug. They don’t really have a good answer but ask, “Do you think you could find it, while your mind is being assaulted that way?”

A long moment of silence as he squeezes them even tighter. Finally, they feel him move a little as he shakes his head and whispers, “No.”

Shuddering, he curls over them. He makes a slight twitch, and with a barely audible whimper he sits up a little and rests his mask against their horn.

“I want…” he starts in a whisper, then trails off. Doesn’t start again. They can feel him trembling, breathing erratic.

Ghost sits there, thinking. They think they know what he wants, but they have both gotten tangled up several times in thinking they know what the other one wants. Thinking instead of talking, although from what they have witnessed in watching other bugs, Quirrel is much better at talking and getting things out into the open than most — perhaps a little too much sometimes.

Ghost thinks Quirrel believes that he is moving too fast, that he is scaring them. But if that _is_ what he is thinking, he is wrong.

They think… they think both of them are dancing around what Ghost does and doesn’t know. They _know_ what he said, and while they _think_ he is trying to pretend they didn’t hear him — because he _thinks_ that if they heard what he said they would be scared — they _know_ they aren’t scared of him loving them. They _know_ they aren’t afraid to love him.

There is an awful lot of the rest of it they aren’t sure about, or are scared of, or simply don’t know enough to make an informed decision about, but the love? _That_ they are sure of. And Quirrel has more than amply demonstrated that he won’t push, won’t go further than they are ready for — which is just another reason they love him.

Ghost writes, “I love you, too,”

Quirrel glances at what they wrote and freezes.

After a moment, Ghost continues, “But I can’t read your mind; you need to finish telling me what you want.”

A prolonged silence, and then with a shudder Quirrel whispers, “ _You._ ”

The dam broken, his words start tumbling out. “I want _you_. I want to hold you, I want to be with you, want to see the world with you, live with you, _love you_.” Taking a deep breath, he says, “I love you, Ghost; you are my friend, my little Ghost, my everything.” They can feel his breath against their horn as he talks, soft and warm. “I want to give you the world, I want to save you, I _want_ … oh love, what I want most — out of everything — is a future I can’t have. But if I can have now…” His voice drops to a whisper, “if _we_ can have now… please. Will you be with me? For however long ‘now’ is?”

Ghost nods, and Quirrel releases them with a gasp when they drop the slate and wriggle to stand up. They whirl around and wrap their arms around his neck as he lifts them and envelops them in a hug.

* * *

In a barely-there whisper Quirrel asks, “May I kiss you?”

They nod, and with a whimpered moan he turns his head, and they feel his mask shift a little as his mandibles brush cautiously against the side of their head — then more firmly. He moves one of his hands to cup the outside of their head, and his mouth moves up to the base of their horn, tracing small nibbles along the way. It tickles a little, in a comfortable way. Having reached his goal, he leans in and presses his mouth firmly against the bottom of their horn, his mandibles making small scraping motions, his breath uneven against the side of their head.

Shifting a little, he turns and starts brushing small kisses up their temple and then across their cheeks, and they relax their grip to let him. When he reaches the middle, he moves his hands so that one is on each side of their head, thumbs just below their horns, and pulls them down a little to kiss them on their forehead a few times before leaning back a little to rest his forehead on theirs. His breathing is unsteady, and his thumbs start rubbing in small circles.

It feels nice, and with a small sigh they lean into his forehead a little more, content. They bring their hands forward and rest them behind his mask on his cheeks for a while, their thumbs gently tracing the tops of his cheekpads.

Quirrel shivers a little, sighs, and says, “I keep trying to slow down, give you time, and you keep finding some winding side path that bypasses my expectations and demolishes my defenses, and I don’t even know you have run ahead until I come around a corner and slam into you.” He sits back, eyes level with theirs — they can no longer reach, so they drop their hands — and just looks at them for a few moments, hands still cupping their head. He huffs a soft laugh, leans forward, and asks, “May I?” At their nod he tilts his head to kiss their cheek, then moves back and drops his hands. “Perhaps I should take the outrageously unprecedented action of simply _asking_ you.” He suddenly breaks out into a wide grin and says, “I can return the favor this way. What do _you_ want, my dear?”

This is likely a highly appropriate question. They have no fucking clue what the answer is beyond that same first answer he gave them: they want _him_ , although they suspect there are differences in how they mean it.

He bursts out into a high, clear, _happy_ laugh — so much like one of his laughs from before that they shiver in delight — and says, “You don’t have to look so poleaxed!” He reaches forward again and lays his hand alongside their cheek and chuckles, “Although I suppose I looked much the same, even if you weren’t facing the right way to see it.”

With a huff, they raise their hand and place it over his where it rests on their face and press it in a little. They want hugs, they want kisses — they liked what he just did, it made them warm and happy and they felt like melting. But they have seen where all that leads, generally. They aren’t necessarily _opposed_ to the idea of sex — they’ve fiddled around with themself enough to know they are fully capable of enjoying it despite the lack of traditional anatomy — but they don’t really understand all the _fuss_. It is entirely possible they could change their mind; they have no doubt that sex is very different as a shared activity. They just don’t feel especially driven to figure out if that’s true.

The kissing? _That_ could be worth a fuss, they think. They don’t know if that’s particularly fair to _Quirrel_ though; they would have to be oblivious to have missed the fact that he is a sexual bug. Extremely discreet, but they have good hearing. It might be fun to see if they can get him flustered again, though. They suspect he deserves to be ruffled a bit. It’s likely they’ll need to find a different topic after they succeed this time — _if_ they succeed. He’ll have twigged onto the fact that they are teasing him via ambush after this if he hasn’t already.

Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, they bend over and pick up the slate, then step forward into his lap and get ready to confront the topic at hand, so to speak.

After a diversion to lower his guard, of course.

Ghost writes, “I am tempted to say ‘candied pears’ in retaliation.”

It’s quieter, but Quirrel laughs that happy laugh again, wraps his arms low around them under their arms, and gently pulls them closer. He leans over their head to watch as they write. He’s enveloped them in himself again, and they bask for a moment.

“I want to be with you. I want to hold you, you to hold me. I want to go to sleep seeing you, wake up seeing you,” they write. “I want to sit like this, with you, surrounded by you, loved by you. Safe. Known. Wanted. \- - - I want to keep touching, to keep hugging. I’ve decided I like the kissing — I want that, more; I want to learn.”

Quirrel briefly squeezes them tight, and they feel him move and kiss the top of their head. They _definitely_ like the kisses.

They write again, “But I am not sure about what comes after the kissing and hugging.”

They feel him sit up a little, movement as he shakes his head. He says, “No, I know you aren’t ready to make that step, it can wait. Or… I guess I don’t even know if you have…” he trails off.

Ghost huffs. They don’t even feel a little guilty now; he set himself up nicely.

“The anatomy may be absent, but I am as capable of self-stimulation as you are. Far less frequently, though,” they write.

Quirrel stiffens a bit and sits up; as they erase, he starts, “I’m sorry, I thought I was—”

They write, “You have been very discreet, I just have better hearing than most bugs. It is a normal impulse, nothing to be ashamed of.”

He is absolutely still for a moment.

“Why, you little…” he starts, and then laughs. “I walked right into that, didn’t I.”

Ghost nods, and he chuckles. “I suppose that is one way to drive home that you understand what sex is and why it happens. Consider me educated, although I am always open for questions.”

Shifting some, he kisses the side of their horn and then leans over to kiss the top of their head. “I am going to guess that you didn’t just set me up for the fun of it, though,” he says.

Shaking their head, Ghost writes, “I don’t really feel any urge for it. I don’t have strong feelings about it, and I am willing to see if a partner changes that. \- - - But I can also tell that sex is something you want and thoroughly enjoy; you are very sensual, and easily aroused.” Quirrel inhales to speak, and they shake their head and pat his arm for him to wait. “I liked the kiss. A lot. I want more of those, but it didn’t inspire any additional urges, which surprised me. \- - - I thought that if someone enjoyed kissing like that, they would want more, that it would also arouse them, help them feel like having sex. \- - - I did like the kissing, I want more kissing, but it didn’t seem to arouse me. \- - - Which leaves me very confused, although it is probably just something else fucked up about my body. \- - - But I want you to know because it isn’t fair to you, since you do get aroused.”

They sigh, and then make a little shrug and place their hands on the side of the slate, hoping Quirrel has an answer of some sort to the quandary.

With a soft laugh, he gives them a quick squeeze. “I can work with any of that.” He gives them another kiss on the side of their horn. “I do enthusiastically enjoy sex, but being able to hold, love, kiss, and cuddle is far more important. I can deal with the other myself. There are a number of ways for a sexual lover to be with an asexual partner. It just takes time, awareness, and respect for limits to find a fair balance.” Another little kiss. “And ‘fair balance’ _always_ means stopping when someone doesn’t want to go forward, no questions asked. _Always_.”

He makes a contented noise and nuzzles their horn again. “I’m just glad you don’t seem to be averse to talking about it. That’s rare.” Moving to the outside of their horn, he starts trailing small kisses as he drifts down. “Now, my dear,” he breaths as he reaches the base of their horn, and they shiver as he whispers, “you just need to work on situational communication and tell me when something might look like it is killing you but isn’t.”

Ghost nods, distracted.

“Mmhm,” Quirrel murmurs, and presses his mouth in firmly at the base of their horn, mandibles moving back and forth. There is a brief press of something warm and wet, and he shudders with a sigh as he sits back up.

“And love, your body is not ‘fucked up’ as you so eloquently put it. There are plenty of bugs who don’t enjoy or want sex. You are unique in many ways, but not this one.” He shivers a little, then chuckles again. “Your coldness, on the other hand, is very unique,” he says before turning to plant another kiss onto their horn. “I need to warm up, I’m afraid. Let’s gather our things and make a last search before heading home.”

Ghost nods and puts the slate away as they stand up.

* * *

They don’t take a whole lot when they leave the apartment. This one didn’t have much in the way of medications, despite the pattern of more… exotic and narcotic medications in the grand apartments. Quirrel had looted the kitchen’s spice assortment some the night before, although he had made a snide comment that led them to believe he’s of the opinion that whoever had done the cooking in the house didn’t much care what they ate.

It takes about half of the day to make it back to their… to make it _home_. The Pleasure House has many shortcomings as an actual home, but the hot springs compensate for a lot of them. Quirrel looks at the springs longingly as he starts past, and then mutters something they don’t quite hear that may or may not have been “fuck it” as he drops his bags against a wall. Amused, they watch as he walks over to the springs and then plops down with a rather obscene groan.

Quirrel stretches his legs out, sighs, and then scoots his bottom forward and lays back so that his head is on the edge of the pool but the rest of him is stretched out. He looks like a boat, and they silently snicker.

They also have a decidedly wicked idea; they wonder if he has murderous tendencies. Hopefully not, although they are about to find out.

Walking over to where he had dropped his packs, they remove their nail and lay it on top of them. Moving so that they are lined up where he can’t see them get a good start, they silently run at the springs, leap into the air and dash over the water, then Dive. Water goes _everywhere_ , and Quirrel makes a rather satisfying shriek. Standing in the middle of the significantly emptier spring, they do their damndest to look innocent.

It doesn’t work.

Apparently they needed to find a scapeweevil.

Quirrel may have more murderous inclinations than they realized.

They run.

* * *

He finally corners them in one of the side rooms and uses the technique he had previously implemented of simply laying on top of them.

It is at that point they both learn that Ghost is ticklish, which is _not fucking fair_ , because Quirrel is not. After a short scuffle, they are laughing so hard they can’t adequately defend themself and he scoops them up. Striding out of the room, he moves quickly down the hall back to the springs. They have half an instant to process what he is up to before he bodily chucks them into the air, and they flail around as they fly before splashing into the springs.

Standing up, they turn and find him standing there, hands on his hips and _glaring_ at them, quivering with the laughter he is trying his best not to let free. He starts to say something, stops; starts to say something else, and stops again. They tilt their head to the side a little, and his whole body jerks. He finally gives up and sits down at the side of the spring, laughing.

Ghost bounces in place, splashing in the water, happy.

* * *

They spend a few hours relaxing in the springs, mostly just lying there. Quirrel had wondered if the heat of the springs could counterbalance their coldness, since he could actually overheat if he submerged himself too far. The answer is ‘yes’ and so they spend some time figuring out what the balance needs to be, how submerged he has to stay in order to keep warm. It turns out that the fact he is boat-shaped is useful in the endeavor, and Ghost is laying on his belly with their head on his chest as he gently bobs around the springs, his arms loosely folded across their back. He is idly rubbing the back of their head with one hand, and they are drowsily kneading his chest with one of theirs.

“Do you remember anything at all from before you left Hallownest?” he quietly asks.

Ghost shakes their head. Nothing has really felt familiar, they haven’t remembered anything from that past. There has been a distressing increase in the number of panic attacks, but since both Ghost and the mayfly acolytes had concluded that they were being caused by something Ghost couldn’t remember, it only makes sense that whatever initiated those is something that happened here. Sighing a little, they figure they should let him know that. Eventually. They are comfortable and content and wonder why in the stars above he is asking them questions _now_. Especially since they are stuck at yes/no answers unless they move. And fuck that.

Turning their head a little, they nuzzle into his chest a bit more and poke him. Maybe he’ll take the hint.

He laughs softly, spreads his hand across the back of their head, and shifts to kiss the end of their horn. It makes him rock in the water a bit, and he shifts back. “Very well. I can take a hint occasionally.” He snickers, then says, “Just don’t expect me to make a habit of it.”

* * *

They eventually make it back to the room. Quirrel pulls the curtains out of the room, folding them a bit and putting them in the next room over. Ghost starts pulling out everything they collected while he does that, “organizing” it into general piles as they remove it. There had been some general shuffling as they collected on the way back, moving items from Quirrel’s packs into Ghost so that the things Quirrel might eventually eat could be stored in the packs. Standing in the middle of the growing piles, Ghost is starting to wonder how they wound up with all of this _stuff_ , because they certainly don’t remember picking it up.

They are still pulling items out when Quirrel returns, and they turn to give him a bewildered look as they stand there holding a pair of scissors.

He stops dead as he catches sight of them and the piles.

“Uhmm. That’s… did _I_ give you all of that??”

Ghost nods. It’s either that or they suddenly developed a tendency to pick up things that they’ve never bothered with before.

“Stars above. I uh… I thought I said not to let me do this?”

They nod again. He had, and they had planned to, but it seems they didn’t process how often he was just absent-mindedly handing them something to pack away.

“Ah.”

They set the scissors down on a pile and go back to removing inventory. They are starting to notice a distressing tendency for duplicate items.

“There’s _more_!?” he yelps.

Ghost nods and shrugs. They think for a moment, then sign, “Some.”

Quirrel just stares at them. They resume pulling items out. With a mildly disheartened sigh, Quirrel comes over and starts sorting the piles.

* * *

“For future reference, we do not need any more scissors, screwdrivers, small bottles, little trays, or quite frankly anything else until we actually run across a need for it. If at any point I suggest otherwise, you are to swat me with this,” and he hands them a spatula, “the seventh spatula that we most certainly did not need. Can you manage that?”

Ghost grabs the spatula and swings it back and forth, waves it in front of them, and then points it at Quirrel in a challenge.

“Good.”

* * *

Most of the items are eventually sorted out, with the duplicates consigned to the room Quirrel had dumped the curtains into. His belongings from his room in the Archives are stored around the room, several books and other casual reading items on a shelf. Due to the sudden inventory management issues, they hadn’t had time to find where the springs overflowed to get anything cleaned. The collected bedding is still cleaner than the curtains, so they kick things around a bit and arrange the pillows and blankets into a nest of sorts, with the pile of pillows and blankets that Quirrel seems to love indulging in on one side and a number of flatter cushions with a pillow or two and a small blanket for Ghost.

They think it should work — the times they have had troubles with bedding and sleeping have almost all been because they were in some way constrained or trapped. Quirrel should provide a buffer against them getting into his pile of fluff and may even be able to help if he notices them getting agitated.

They are leaving their nail on the cabinet this time; no reason to tempt fate. Quirrel has also left his mask on the cabinet and is now sitting in the nested bedding shuffling things about a little. He looks up as they come over and reaches out for them. He makes a contented hum as they take his hand, pulling them in for a tight hug. He kisses them lightly as he lets go and sits back, letting them get arranged for sleep. Once they are settled in, he shuffles around and gets his pillows set up, throws a blanket over himself and then curls around them like he had last night. Unlike last night, he indulges in an embrace, kissing them for a little while before pressing his forehead against theirs.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers.

They squeeze his arm where it is resting across them. They have some new signs they need to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update schedule (not that it ever existed) definitely took a hell of a hit this week. Gods save me, getting back to work was painful.
> 
> I am absolutely positive it will be taking another big hit next week, because I am going to be working through a FAT (Factory Acceptance Test) for a complete rewrite and overhaul of the graphics at the technician operator stations in the plant. Nothing is changing behind the scenes, in the programs, but just imagine that someone changed nothing about your favorite software except for completely rearranging where everything is, all the colors are different, and the keyboard shortcuts have been changed. I am expecting _pain_ and _suffering_ , and not just for the technicians.
> 
> And that will be in the weeks _after_ the testing is complete.
> 
> The testing is going to be me, one of the operations supervisors, and the contractor who did most of the reworking (remotely) sitting around a console at the plant simulation for ten hours for five days, clicking every single thing that can be clicked and making sure it does the thing it is supposed to do. So while I will desperately _want_ to think of something else, I will probably use the time to catch up on many of the fanfictions I have fallen behind on reading while doing this. I suspect my brain will be toast.
> 
> There might be something written, but if it does you need to heap praises on my beta reader because if it is even semi-coherent it will have been their doing.


	12. You Could Be the One I’ll Always Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel muses, then either over- or under-estimates himself, depending on what your point of view is.
> 
> Ghost tells him what they know, some speculation occurs.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Art for this chapter! Again from [@mushroomminded](https://mushroomminded.tumblr.com/), these three images are meant to be drawings done by Ghost from their previously mentioned personal journal. I’ll be featuring her art from time to time as we hit the parts of the story where I have art; if I add any to previous chapters, I’ll be sure to flag those images and link them when I put them up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Welcome to the stream-of-consciousness that is ADHD let loose when just idly thinking. It has shown up before when Quirrel is musing, and it is back now. Trust me, this is toned down; if it seems normal I may have toned it down too much. I was trying to at least maintain _some_ sense of transition between thoughts to keep it coherent, but for better or worse this is mostly how it spilled out as I thought of it instead of the rearranging I usually do (beyond making sure I got the order of the meet-ups correct for how I’m writing the story).
> 
> * * *
> 
> This is the last chapter of this work! It is, in essence, the final bit of setup for getting the rest of the plot rolling. Obviously there is still a lot of story to happen, and life is far from a bed of roses. There is plenty of grief and sorrow to come, but also love and happiness.
> 
> Thank you for joining me in this, and hope to see you again soon!  
>   
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

For the second morning in a row, Quirrel is the first to wake up. He knows he sleeps less when stressed, at least until he reaches the point of exhaustion and collapse. Neither of them got enough sleep the night before, plus Ghost had had a panic attack, so it probably makes sense they need some extra sleep. He doubts he can make the niggling worry stop, so just accepts its presence for now.

Shifting to prop his head on his hand and just look at them, he again marvels at what they are. There are more little bubbles of memory tickling at the edges of his awareness when he thinks about Vessels, but he still can’t actually put them together.

He wonders how it is working, how the memories are coming back. Is it a barrier that is dropping bit by bit, or are they somehow being returned from somewhere else? He had originally thought it was the first, that he had simply been blocked from being able to reach them. But with time away from the Archives — time where his attention has been focused away from what he has lost — some of the damage has started to heal. And with that healing, he has realized that the analogies he is using to try and describe the sensations are of things coming in, not barriers being torn apart. But analogies aren’t truth, so that proves nothing. There may be no way to prove anything, no way to learn what that truth may be.

He is also very curious about what Ghost has been learning about the Infection. He has noticed that they don’t seem to be aware of how differently the Infected behave around them; to be fair, it is likely hard to see that they behave differently around them when they can’t manage another point of view. They will likely eventually notice that the Infected completely ignore Quirrel in favor of attacking Ghost when that option is available — at least until Quirrel has hit them. If he is being honest, they will likely consider it a boon.

With a sigh, he leans over and brushes a kiss on their forehead; they slumber on.

How did he end up in love? Perhaps more significantly, how has he not ended up in love before? Three hundred years is an awfully long time, and even a cursory look at his personality suggests that he should have been in love at some point. Was it part of the spell? _Something_ kept him from questioning how much time had been passing. Falling in love, staying with someone for any amount of time, would have made that almost impossible to miss. Watching someone age while he doesn’t sounds like about as much fun as watching them die from any other cause, albeit slower.

He now remembers a bit more about the bugs he had been with before leaving, although not much. Those relationships had been more grounded than those he had been in while wandering. Even as fragmented as the recollections are, those relations had been _deeper_ in some indefinable way — including the ones that had been of the three-night variety.

It may be as simple as the spell driving him ahead instead of letting him settle somewhere, never letting him truly look at what was in front of him if there was any chance that it would keep him from moving on. Thinking about it now, there were a couple of times when a lover told him that he had been looking to leave before he even arrived. Not knowing much about magic he can’t be sure, but a condition of ‘don’t look here’ any time he paused in moving forward sounds far easier to implement than trying to come up with with and then block the wide variety of things that might cause him to stop and love someone.

With a pang of grief, he wishes he could go back and apologize to those lovers; they certainly didn’t deserve that pain.

Is this love now a reaction to the cessation of that drive? It doesn’t feel like it, but how would he know? He supposes it is as valid a question as trying to figure out if Ghost’s love for him is simply because he is the first bug to stop and tell them they are worth being loved — so not very valid at all. He is still having troubles wrapping his mind around that concept as well. Unless something had drastically altered their personality when Ghost set foot into Hallownest, there is absolutely nothing he has seen or learned about them that should have prevented them from finding someone, somewhere, and being in a family. They are kind, they go out of their way to help — they hauled _him_ home like some sort of lost aphid and let him take over their life, after all. And yes, there was obviously some selfish motivation behind that impulse, but only if you classified ‘I want my friend to live so that they can still be my friend’ as _selfish_. Quirrel is quite sure that would be stretching the definition to a near-unrecognizable state. The rest came later.

…or did it?

The spell didn’t break until the Archives. If Ghost had been developing feelings prior to that, would he have recognized it, been _allowed_ to recognize it? They had met several times prior to that. The first had been in the Black Egg Temple, where he had talked to them for a little while; 15 minutes or so. Not long, but they had seemed quite interested in what he was saying. And in one of the few supporting arguments for his memories being blocked rather than removed, he hadn’t even stopped to question what they were at the time; hadn’t been surprised when they didn’t talk; hadn’t thought to ask their name. That was the one that had him symied. He had talked away at them but hadn’t at any point expected a _response_. Even now, all he really knows about Vessels is that they were meant to be automatons, but not quite — somehow more, but still automatons. Constructed beings, meant for a purpose. Alive, but not.

The second time he met them had been at Unn’s temple. They had looked absolutely exhausted when they came in, and he remembers being stunned that his first impression had been that they looked ready to cry when the temple hadn’t been empty. Their relief when they recognized him had been palpable; they had sagged, waved, stumbled over to the bench, and collapsed onto it. They had promptly fallen asleep and toppled over shortly after; it hadn’t woken them up. He had scooped them up and gently laid them back on the bench.

Why hadn’t he processed how cold they were then? Thinking about it now, he had _noticed_ but it was like the fact hadn’t gone anywhere. As if it had been unsurprising, not to be noted. And promptly forgotten again.

He remembers choosing to stay, keeping watch until they woke up a couple of hours later, sitting up and blearily looking around the temple until they found him. They had perked up and come to sit beside him, watching him as he cleaned his nail. He remembers being surprised at the interaction, then being surprised at his reaction of surprise. He had started talking when they had pointed at him and then gestured at their mouth. They had listened to him, rapt; prompting him to keep talking once or twice when he had stopped out of politeness. He had mentioned something, and they had pulled out their map and shown them where they had been. Their map had been much smaller then. He had commented on how neat it was, and the little drawings of areas had been well done; as a whole, their map was a work of art that only kept growing. They had stayed and listened to him for an hour or two, lapsing into a comfortable silence after a while.

Eventually they had pulled out some charms, rearranged them and pinned a different set into place. Standing up, they had looked at him for a few moments and then waved. He had returned the farewell, and they had departed.

Queen’s Station had been the third place he had talked to them. He had come through Fog Canyon and was mentally exhausted; he hadn’t known why then but can make a damn good guess now. Resting on the top northwest platform where they would later sleep after the return to the Archives, he had perked up as they dropped down. When they turned and saw him there, they had bounced in place a couple of times before dashing to his side. He had smiled at them, and they had practically started vibrating with happiness.

Oh gods, that answers his question — he hadn’t seen what had been developing, whether due to the spell or whatever unconscious assumptions he had been working around about Vessels. And those assumptions were unconscious and unquestioned due to the spell, so ultimately the ‘don’t look here’ was at fault.

How many other times has he missed seeing something so blatant? He can only imagine how much he would have hurt Ghost, by simply not acknowledging their reactions. Has he hurt others that way? His heart aches at that nebulous possibility.

Shaking his head, Quirrel lifts his hand from where he had been resting it on their abdomen and softly brushes his knuckles against their cheek. They take a small breath but stay asleep. Smiling, he lays it back on their abdomen.

At Queen’s Station Ghost had gotten him talking again, looking at the things he was pointing to, bouncing around him with enthusiasm. They had finally gotten him to move about the station, and he had rambled on, speculating away and making theories about what had obviously been a well-used hub of transportation. They had met Willoh and had a brief conversation, although there had been something off about it and neither of them had seemed interested in continuing it for long.

At the bottom station platform, there had been a spot to add Geo into a machine. Ghost had been quite put out that they didn’t have enough Geo at the time — if he remembers right, they had had about five. He had offered them the fifty or so he had on him, but the machine had wanted more, so they returned it. The machine had been the recipient of a glare, but there had been no appreciable effect.

The fourth meeting had been outside of the Mantis Village. He had been having a hell of a time navigating amongst the mantises. He kept trying to negotiate peacefully through, but they flat out wouldn’t let them. He had finally given up after it had become obvious that the only way through was by killing. He was perfectly willing to slaughter the Infected, but the mantises weren’t. He was standing there lamenting the fact that he wouldn’t be able to explore the Village when Ghost had popped up behind him. They had seemed quite happy to see him, and so he had told them of his encounters within the Village. They had looked over and nodded in agreement, then finally realized he had a nice gash across his chest. At their panic, he had assured them he was headed off to a hot spring to cope with the mess and they had calmed. Ruefully, he had suggested that they should maybe head to the City of Tears and get their nail patched up some.

Ghost had been non-plussed at that; it was the first negative reaction he had seen from them. He had apologized with a chuckle, which hadn’t seemed to help much. They swatted a mushroom with their nail, glared at him, and walked off. Pausing at the edge of the little cliff, they had sighed a little and then turned back around and waved at him, waiting until he had returned their wave before jumping down and heading into the Village.

They had found him in the City of Tears after that. The elevator had come crashing down in a cacophony of grinding gears and screeching metal, and they had hopped off and dashed over to the bench where he was sitting. They had bounced around him some; he now suspects they desperately wanted to hug him but couldn’t overcome their inhibitions. They had finally sat down briefly, then scampered over to the window and stood there, absolutely transfixed. Eventually they had stepped forward and pressed their hands to the glass, leaning against it and watching. He had stood up and gone over to where they were standing, and they had been startled, looking up to him before relaxing again. They had pointed out to the City, but he hadn’t had much to offer at the time. He hadn’t gone far, and something was pushing him away from there. He still isn’t sure what that was. So he had talked about the beauty of it, and then they had both stood there silently, enjoying the view.

Ghost had sighed and stepped away from the window, heading back over to the bench. He had joined them after a brief moment, watching as they once again pulled out their map. They had run out of paper, it seemed, because they didn’t add any details from the City. They did fill out more of the Fungal Wastes as he watched. They had shifted slightly when they noticed his interest, and he had put his arm along the back of the bench and leaned over to get a better view. It had been comfortable, and he suspects that would have been the moment when he started falling in love if he had been able to. There was an intimacy to the moment that would have been a harbinger — may very well have been for Ghost.

They had left and come back a few times while he was there, usually taking time to show him some items or their map. Sometimes they just sat there and quietly enjoyed the view with him.

He had most definitely been blinded; Ghost’s affections were far from subtle.

Ghost had also just suddenly… been back at the bench at least twice while he pondered. Interesting.

He remembers being mildly surprised they were there but at the time he had ascribed it to how silently they moved. Except they generally _weren’t_ quiet when they were around him, not in the sense they would have needed to be in order to sneak up on him. He has absolutely no doubts that they _could_ sneak up on him easily, but they wouldn’t have had a cause to unless they were wanting to cause trouble, which they hadn’t. Each of those times they had also been inordinately angry, as well as exhausted; they had seemed to be in a great deal of pain as well.

Those must have been times they had… died. Which means he _has_ seen them come back, although he wasn’t actually looking — so they had just _been there_ on the bench.

Ghost hadn’t mentioned the pain, when they had talked about dying.

Considering how he had been reacting, they may have been trying to save him some grief. He hasn’t often thought about that discussion since it happened, beyond a growing sense of dread while waiting for the inevitable to happen.

Forcing himself to think it through at least a little, he realizes that dying still involves getting injured to the point of death. Ghost has been hit a few times while fighting random Infected creatures, and it is quite obvious it hurts them in the moment, but either they compensate and hide pain very well, or it doesn’t last much longer than three seconds. They are tired at the end of a fight when they have had to heal much more than a hit or two, but he hasn’t seen them injured more than that. The exhaustion and pain they were exhibiting after popping back in the City of Tears indicates something far deeper, and lingering.

Is that what they meant by their ‘shade’ being separated from them? Does fixing that situation at least get rid of the pain? He desperately hopes so. From what they have said, it doesn’t fix the exhaustion, and obviously something needs replenished if they have to eat afterwards.

The last time he met them before the Archives was in the Crystal Peak. The whole area had given him a deep-seated sense of unease, and his head kept ringing like there was some almost-audible harmonic permeating throughout the area. When he had found the overlook, it had been a profound relief to step out of the overwhelming sound of machinery and mindless mining as well as the not-quite ringing. Standing there and looking out over Dirtmouth, almost being able to see beyond the Howling Cliffs, had been peaceful. He had idly contemplated what he would do next, after he finished exploring Hallownest. In hindsight, it was the first time that whatever was driving him to wander had pushed back against the call that kept him here. Was it because of something within the Crystal Peaks interfering with Monomon’s call? Too late to experiment now, but he wonders if that had been the ringing in his head.

Ghost had seemed hesitant to approach him that time. Had they figured out he was carrying Monomon’s mask by then? If they had, their caution doesn’t surprise him. He still doesn’t know how much they have learned, although the plan is for them both to go over that once they wake up. His chest had ached at their hesitation — another indication that he had wanted more, even if it was subconscious and he couldn’t recognize it; as was the extent of his relief when they had finally relaxed while he talked to them.

He had finally drawn them out into showing him their map, then pointed out a few things they had missed here and there. They had taken neat little notes, sketching in some details. They had shown them their journal of critters they had run across in Hallownest. It was more than that, but he hadn’t been able to understand what they were trying to tell him beyond magic was involved.

Once again, they had sat with him for a lengthy time, just looking out the window.

Put together like this, considering all of those meetings in a row, what has happened over the last ten or so days isn’t quite so sudden and out of the blue. Living together, traveling together as they have is also far more immersive than random dates and dinners scattered out across weeks or months.

His worry that all of this is simply due to stress, the emotional connection due to a shared tragedy, is partially alleviated by the recognition of everything that happened well before the Archives. Something had already been growing, despite the strong push away by the spell. The connection was there.

Quirrel brings his hand up to the side of their head again and leans forward to kiss their forehead.

They startle awake with a jerk when he makes contact in both places; it must have triggered whatever it is that getting tangled up trips. He drops his hand back to their abdomen, barely touching, and rocks back a little so he isn’t in their face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you that way,” he says quietly. Waits for them to gain their bearings.

They lay there panting, and he starts to worry that they may not get oriented. “Ghost?”

Their head snaps over in that odd jerky way they get when they are lost in their head, and his heart sinks. After a second there is a subtle shift, and he can tell when they come back.

They look at him for a moment, turn their head as they glance around the room, and then look back to him. He feels them move their hands and pull them out from under the blanket. They place one hand on top of his where it is almost on their abdomen, grasping his fingers and pushing it down the rest of the way; their other hand stretches up and touches the side of his face, and he relaxes into a smile.

“Good morning, love,” he says.

Ghost squeezes his fingers and then shifts the hand they have on the side of his face, gently tugging.

With a smile he leans over to kiss their forehead, then their cheek.

They sigh and their fingers spread out along his cheek in a caress.

Straightening up with a small chuckle, he asks, “Did you sleep well?”

They nod, and then pat his hand.

“Yes, I did too. It felt good.”

They nod again, and then sit up. He stays where he is, lounging on the pillows with his head propped on his hand, looking up at them.

Ghost turns around and shifts so that they are nearly against his upper chest. They lean over and drape their arm over his shoulder, and then briefly lean against him. Quirrel brings his hand over from where it had been abandoned when they sat up and lays it against their leg, thumb up and over their knee, his arm curled behind them.

After a pause, they sign, “Ok I kiss you?”

Puzzled, Quirrel responds, “Of course you may, why would I object?”

“My” —they gesture at their mouth— “different you. Kiss maybe not work, you maybe not want. You see maybe think?” they sign.

Quirrel has seen them eat and their mouth is a bit recessed in a way that will make the angles odd, but he is puzzled by their concern.

“I can’t see how that would be an issue, I’ve been kissed by other bugs and—”

Ghost snorts and opens their mouth wide.

“…that is different, I will grant you that.”

With a huff they close their mouth most of the way, then stick their tongue out at him before the whole thing disappears back into the bottom of their head.

They sign, “I say different, you see different. You maybe need think, tell later. I need…” and they pause, think a bit and then wave their hands about.

Quirrel shakes his head a little, says, “No, I don’t need to think about it. Different doesn’t mean not possible.” He smiles and squeezes their leg a little, continues, “I’m always up for new experiences. Admittedly I don’t know how _sharp_ those are, but I also don’t know what all is sensitive for you. Kissing is…” and he pauses. After thinking for a moment he says, “Kissing is a very personal thing. For most bugs it’s based on what you’ve seen or been taught; there is no right or wrong way to kiss, just what feels good for you and your partner.”

With a smile he says, “Finding out what feels good is something all new partners have to do, especially when you are with a new kind of bug. You have to learn where your partner is sensitive, and even if you are the same species those areas can be different due to previous experiences.”

Reaching up, he touches the edge of their mouth. “Is this area any more sensitive than the rest of your head?” he asks as he drops his hand again.

Ghost shakes their head.

Quirrel asks, “Does it feel any different when you touch your mouth?”

They think for a moment, then reach up with their hand and poke their cheek a couple of times, and then poke around by their mouth. They shrug.

He laughs and says, “Context can be especially important for how kissing — and touching — feels. Here, maybe I can show you.”

Bringing his hand forward, he smiles at them and then touches the back of his knuckles to their cheek, just under their eye. He rests them there a moment, then drops his hand down to their chin and brushes his knuckles back along the edge of their face until he reaches their shoulder, where he stops and gently grips their shoulder.

Ghost cocks their head at him a little, puzzled.

Quirrel grins and tells them, “I would call that a fairly neutral touch. You could tell by context that I wasn’t after any particular reaction. Now if I do it this way…”

He again brings his hand forward and touches the back of his knuckles to their cheek, and then slowly trails them along under their eye. When he reaches the side of their head, he turns his hand and lets his fingers barely brush the base of their horn before lightly running them down the side of their face to the base of their chin. He gives them a warm smile as he draws his fingers forward across the bottom of their chin, tracing along the seam where their mouth had closed. Reaching the front, he inhales softly and brings his thumb up to gently rub their chin.

Softly, he asks, “Did that feel different?”

Ghost shivers a little and nods. He drops his hand to their shoulder and sits back with a little sigh; they reach up to place their hand over his.

“That’s what I meant by context. I changed what I did a little, but I mostly changed how I went about it. The _intent_ was quite different.” Shifting his hand, he captures theirs against his with his thumb. “And don’t be surprised if it is awkward and weird at first; it always is when kissing a new bug.” With a wide grin he adds, “It’s a perfect excuse to keep trying again.”

Quirrel lets go of their hand and wraps his arm behind them, bringing his hand up to brush the outside edge of their horn. “There’s no reason not to experiment now, if you want to.”

Ghost nods, shifts a little, and then leans forward. He feels them brush against his mandible, then pause. Sitting back up some, they look at him.

He says, “I was planning to just let you explore, see what it feels like a little bit first. Or did you want me to do something?”

They hesitate, then sit up a little more and sign, “Unsure.”

“Go ahead and explore, see what it feels like first.”

They nod again, then lean back forward. There’s a hesitation and then they gently bump their chin against his mandible. They shift a little and he feels the edge of their mouth lightly touch and then brush along towards the front of his mandible. They pull back slightly and then he feels a brief flicker of cold.

As warmth blooms in his chest, Quirrel begins to question the wisdom of his choices.

Ghost shifts their head back a little, towards his cheek, and then ducks in again. They move their mouth along the bottom of his mandible this time, brushing upward in a series of delicate taps.

In a blinding flash of prescience that occurs a moment too late, Quirrel inhales so that he can ask them to stop just as they feather their tongue along the top of his mandible. Instead of coherent speech, Quirrel shudders and groans as fire shoots through his belly.

Ghost sits bolt upright, staring at him tensely.

Quirrel gasps, “Just a moment!” and drops his head off of his hand to lay back, shivering.

They seem to figure out his problem, relaxing as they sit back.

Quirrel starts taking deep breaths and stares at the ceiling. Ghost doesn’t seem to be upset or put off, nor do they seem to think they need to do anything to help him — he’s glad. It means they believed him when he says his reactions are his problem, not theirs — that doesn’t always happen. They also aren’t trying to apologize, which is a relief. They’ll be more likely to try again if they don’t feel anxious.

Ghost continues to sit there quietly as he calms down, and to his surprise their patience is remarkably soothing. He hasn’t been in this situation often, but calm acceptance has never been the aftermath of a blunder like this. After a minute or so, he sighs and gently grabs their shoulder.

Ghost reaches over and puts their hand on his when he doesn’t do anything else, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I suppose I need to withdraw my objection to your accusation of ‘easily aroused,’ don’t I,” he says ruefully.

He feels them shake a little with silent laughter, and rolls onto his side, props his head back on his hand, and looks at them.

They sign, “You need me go? Wait, come later?”

Quirrel shakes his head, inhales to speak, stops. Glaring, he says, “You know _exactly_ what you just said, don’t you.”

Ghost starts shaking with laughter, rocking a little bit in their glee.

“Evil. You are pure evil,” he says. “I think we are done with this for now, due to my stress levels if nothing else.”

He shakes his head. “I am going to have some breakfast, are you interested in eating?”

They shake their head, and he rolls forward and kisses their forehead before standing up.

* * *

They settle in for a long session of talking, brainstorming, and map-viewing. Ghost is ensconced in a blanket in Quirrel’s lap, the map spread in front of them.

Ghost is pointing out the various areas of the map they have explored and found something of any significance. He knows in a general sense that since he tends to get sidetracked in an area and never really remembers to backtrack — combined with his flippant attitude towards maps — he doesn’t actually fully explore anywhere. Looking at the intricate level of detail and thoroughness of Ghost’s map is humbling. They have both been in Hallownest for a similar amount of time, but Ghost has scoured most of the areas they have gone through, and if they _haven’t_ followed a path, it is nearly always marked with an indication that they couldn’t traverse it for some reason.

It is embarrassing. He wonders if he can blame it on the spell that kept him moving instead of staying somewhere long enough to do it justice, but he doesn’t think so; he tends to get distracted just fine on his own.

Pointing out the clearing where they had first encountered Hornet, Ghost describes their first encounter with the Dreamers. Now that he is less distressed overall, it sinks in that this means the Dreamers are _aware_ , at least in some fashion, of what is occurring in Hallownest. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. Mildly sick, but otherwise at a loss.

He mentions that Herrah is Hornet’s mother, and Ghost goes absolutely still. Maybe he shouldn’t have told them, but that thought is rapidly followed by the recognition that they would have learned it eventually. Sighing, he bows his head and kisses them before resting his head on theirs, silent for a while as they absorb their shock.

There isn’t anything he can do to make it better. Everything is a horrible mess, and he knows in a vague sense that there is far worse to come, and even if Ghost saves what is left, Quirrel’s world will collapse. He convulsively hugs them tight.

After a long pause, they move forward across the map again. They point to an alcove that has been marked “The Hunter” and then pull out the critter journal they had shown him in the Crystal Peak. With access to a means of communication, they are able to explain it better this time, and he finds the concept interesting. Incomprehensible, but fascinating. Ghost apparently has no clue either. They have written little helpful as well as snide comments on various pages near the Hunter’s notes, or in a blank area when those aren’t available yet.

Skipping back over to the eastern side of the map, they trace a path down a vertical shaft in Crystal Peak where it lands down in the Resting Grounds. They tell him about the second time they had encountered the Dreamers, when they had abducted them, what they said. Quirrel finds it bittersweet, learning that the overall impression he had gotten was correct. Monomon had wanted her seal destroyed, knew what that meant.

Ghost writes, “Do you remember much about her, yet?”

He sighs, shakes his head. “I’ve remembered a number of separate things and have a better sense of what she meant to me, how much she meant to me, but it isn’t very coherent. I know she changed my life, but I don’t know what that means. I loved her deeply.” He sighs, notices he is crying again. “I can tell I have a lot of grieving to do, need to do, but I don’t remember enough to know where to start,” he whispers.

Standing up and turning around, Ghost shoves the blanket up his chest and then clutches him around the neck, hugging hard. Forced to stop, forced to feel, the grief crashes over and sucks him under as he seizes them tight and curls around them.

* * *

Quirrel cries for a long time. He can feel his mind wander over unknown things, each one re-triggering his grief, yet remaining an enigma. Ghost holds him the whole time, gently stroking his head or patting his back. Never growing impatient as far as he can tell, which just sets him back to crying again.

Eventually he calms down, head all muzzy but lighter somehow. Ghost shifts, and he feels a hesitant nuzzle back behind his cheekpad — a tiny kiss. He squeezes them in acknowledgement, and they tuck their head back into his shoulder again.

With a deep juddering sigh, he finally pulls back and looks them in the eyes. He cups their head in his hands and leans forward to rest his forehead on theirs for a while. Realizing he needs to teach them, he tilts his face to kiss their cheek, then sits back.

“I forgot to show you; this is how you sign ‘I love you.’”

Watching, Ghost repeats, “I love you.”

* * *

Ghost is back in his lap, and they are once again trying to tell him what they know. He is having a difficult time understanding who the Seer is, and what she has been telling them. In traditional oracle fashion, she seems to speak in riddles. It turns out she is the one who somehow got Ghost out of the Dream Realm, except not quite. She had merely shown them where an artifact — the Dream Nail — had been, and then they used it to break out.

The Seer is now helping Ghost strengthen the Dream Nail somehow. They are collecting Essence in the Nail and then she is somehow attuning it to Ghost. They let him hold it, and other than feeling warm and tingling when he swings it at them, it doesn’t do much. They tell him what it does when they use it on bugs in various states (awake, asleep, dead, and ghosts — oh my), and then use it on him. He doesn’t feel anything as they pass it down in front of him, but they go absolutely still as they absorb whatever it is they picked up from him. After a little prodding, it turns out that while he is focused on the conversation, his subconscious is still worked up from earlier — he drops the subject quickly.

Ghost currently has 647 Essence, and the Seer had said to come back when they had 700. They point to the Soul Sanctum and let him know that the Soul Master has a lingering aura that they need to fight to get rid of, and explain that it would grant them Essence once defeated. They also point to a door in the area, then pull out a key they think will fit into it, suggesting the area as one potential path to explore.

They then trace over and down what they say is a large broken elevator shaft that drops from the City of Tears down into the Ancient Basin. They tap one marker indicating they couldn’t go somewhere and tell him that they couldn’t jump high enough to reach the Palace Grounds. Then they indicate an area directly across from it and say that they believe they can manage to get there now, because the Crystal Heart will let them get over the spikes.

Choice number three seems to be finding Hornet again. They say she told them to meet her in the ash-covered grave, but they have no clue what that means. Quirrel doesn't quite know either, but the phrasing is definitely tickling some memories, and he taps the eastern side of the map thoughtfully.

Overall, it turns out neither of them can make heads nor tails of the Infection. Now that they are sitting down and trying to discuss what they know, it turns out there is nothing coherent. The Infection doesn’t seem to be contagious but spreads rapidly. The Hollow Knight was sacrificed into a temple as a result of the Infection; somehow that was supposed to help. Ghost knows the Hollow Knight is still alive, that they are burning up. They both agree that means they are likely Infected as well. Quirrel’s contribution is that Vessels were created to contain the Infection somehow. Ghost seems quite non-plussed at that particular bit of information, and Quirrel doesn’t fault them. They both agree that Monomon’s expectation was that Ghost would be breaking the seals and supplanting the Hollow Knight. When Ghost had asked him if he knew how the seals would be replaced, he had been at a loss.

They hadn’t asked him the questions he knew they were both thinking: how long would the protection Ghost could grant last, and what would happen when that protection inevitably failed. Quirrel’s mind howls at the futility of it all.

* * *

In the end, they decide to head for the White Palace. Perhaps there will be something there if they can find the Pale King’s records or workshop. It has the hypothetical advantage of not ripping Quirrel’s brain apart but still potentially having information they can use.

Quirrel lets Ghost know that the White Palace is _huge_ , so they both spend a little bit of time choosing what to travel with. He is elated that he won’t be constrained to just his backpack for supplies, and collapses in laughter when Ghost whips around and smacks him in the leg with a spatula.

As they ride the elevator down out of the Pleasure House, Quirrel rests his hand on Ghost’s head and rubs his thumb back and forth. They glance up at him, and then lean into his side and wrap an arm around his leg with a small sigh. Content in the moment, he hums and pulls them closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gods, I actually finished part of a thing. Holy shit.

**Author's Note:**

> Series and Work titles from _Ghosts That We Knew_ by Mumford & Sons. Chapter titles and other such elements are from: _Unintended_ by Muse (for Quirrel) and _Hurricane_ by Deadmau5 (for Ghost).
> 
> * * *
> 
> I am a programmer, which means I gotta fiddle with stuff; there are a couple of things I wanted more control of than the defaults, so this does use an Author Skin. It should be very minimal, but I wanted a way to designate and control the look of conversation held through writing, thoughts during flashbacks/intrusive thoughts, and sign language. If you have a skin and wish to add the elements, the classes are extremely creatively named .thinktalk, .writetalk, and .signtalk.


End file.
